


Loving You Less Than Life, Part II

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: Loving You Less Than Life series by Kadru [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Times, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, Series: The Redemption Project 57, h/c, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-03
Updated: 1999-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim finally admits to himself that he's ready to begin a relationship with Blair, but as a serial killer prowls the streets of Cascade, has he waited too long?<br/>This story is a sequel to Loving You Less Than Life, Part I.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Loving You Less Than Life II

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Okay, so here's part II of "Loving You Less Than Life." Thanks to everyone who offered me so much encouragement to keep going! This second part could use some more polish, I know, but I realized the other day that I posted the first part on Easter, and well, today is Mother's Day, so what the heck!? Let's keep up with the tradition. Here it comes! 

But I have to begin by saying that I have three of the best beta-readers anyone could ever possibly hope for -- Ozymandius, Rie Natalenko and Russet McMillan. They did such a great job and put so much into the development of this piece that I certainly dedicate this to them. Russ helped tremendously in the development with the fed agent's characters and in suggesting certain scenes. Rie did a fabulous job helping me with the character development of Ian and Catherine and with a lot of the dialogue. And Ozy is a Queen of Error-catching! However, they found so much stuff that I'm certain I might have missed a few corrections. When you see a mess-up, "it tweren't their fault!" They are wonderful! Thanks, guys!!! 

Disclaimers: I make no financial claims to Jim, Blair, Simon, Ryf, Naomi, yada yada because they're owned by UPN and Pet Fly. Please don't sue. I'm just taking them out to play with. I will put them back where I found them, just as I hope UPN does the same. (hint hint). Tracy Chapman's lyrics belong to her, and Nina Simone's lyrics belong to whomever owns them. Ian and Catherine belong to me. Dale and Moira were inspired by Russ. One particular scene was inspired by an certain Audrey Hepburn movie, but hey, that one I'm claiming as an "influence." 

Summary: Jim finally admits to himself that he's ready to begin a relationship with Blair, but as a serial killer prowls the streets of Cascade, has he waited too long? 

Warnings: NC-17. Explicit sex, extreme violence and language. Death scene of a minor character. No pink ostriches. :-) To any Emily Dickinson fans, I apologize up front. For those of you living in Massachusetts, that sound you hear is Emily's poor body spinning in her grave so rapidly that's she's built up centrifugal force. 

* * *

Loving You Less Than Life II -- part one  
By Kadru 

"Hey, Chief, look what I just got!" Jim said as he shouldered the heavy wooden Indian into the loft. 

Blair took one look at it and closed his eyes. 

"So what do you think?" 

"Jim, that's a cigar store Indian." 

"Chief, you have an intellect matched only by garden tools." 

"Oh, yeah? Well, you have a room-temperature IQ. Jim, that thing is like so offensive." 

"What do you mean? It's not offensive." 

"It is, Jim. It's a ridiculous caricature of Native Americans." 

Jim stared at Blair with a frown and one eyebrow raised. "Come on, Chief, you can do better than that." 

"Yeah, I certainly can. What if I got a concrete lawn jockey? We could paint his face black with a white circle around his lips, maybe even get a wooden slice of watermelon for him to hold?" 

Jim rolled his eyes. "A wooden Indian isn't that bad. It's not like we made them slaves or anything." 

" _That_ we can debate later. As it is, this one's dressed up like few Native Americans were ever dressed, hoping to sell tobacco to the white man like a begging servant." 

"Chief, you really are pushing it." 

"Well, just don't put that thing in my part of the house." 

"And that would be . . . your bedroom?" 

Blair didn't answer. He stood with his mouth open before turning around and returning to the couch. Blair hoped that Jim wouldn't notice how much that really stung. They had been stepping lightly around each other for months now, after Jack, Blair's first male lover, had been killed by an assassin who mistook him for Jim. Blair sat down at the end of the couch and hid behind a book. He didn't notice any of the black letters, as his mind was miles away. 

Jim rubbed his eyes with his fingers. If he could have reached into the air and taken back the words, he would have. Shaking his head, he walked into the kitchen. 

When Blair thought Jim wasn't looking, he peered over at his friend making himself dinner. Lately Blair tried to hide his sadness around his partner. One, Jim blamed himself for Jack's death. And two, Jim would get just as depressed, knowing there was nothing he could do for Blair to change that. /Good. Jim doesn't seem to notice./ 

But in the kitchen, Jim noticed. He could hear the change in heartbeat and breathing. After Jack's death, Jim had tried to be there for Blair. He felt so responsible. Yet, at the same time, he felt so cheated. He wanted Blair, but by the time he had realized that, Blair had begun to see Jack. /If only I had said something sooner./ 

He returned to the sofa with a sandwich. "Blair?" 

Jim's voice was so tender that Blair's heart squeezed tight. "Yeah?" 

"If the wooden Indian really bothers you . . . I can get rid of it." 

"It is offensive, Jim." 

"But I've always wanted one. Since I was a little kid." 

Blair wondered if Jim really knew how childlike he really was at heart. He had always accused Blair of being the child, but Blair found it so ironic. He stared into Jim's piercing blue eyes and broke. "Jim, I'm not going to make you give that thing up. I just wanted you to know that that thing is like so tacky." 

"Tacky is good," Jim added, still in a pleading voice. 

Blair laughed. "You are too much. You know that man? Too much." 

* * *

"Jim. Sandburg," Simon called out into the bullpen. "My office." 

As they stepped inside, they noticed an older gentleman standing, looking out through the window. He turned, smiling slightly. Jim instantly felt uncomfortable and he didn't know why. "Guys, this is Special Agent Harold Oestend from the FBI." Oestend came over with an outstretched hand. Blair took it noncommittally, but when Jim's hand made contact with the agent, the sentinel measured his pulse as he listened to his heartbeat. There was something odd which he couldn't quite pinpoint, but it made every red flag fly. 

"Sandburg. Ellison," the agent began, his grey eyes calm. "Captain Banks informs me that you are the best officers he has." 

"Officer," Simon corrected. "Sandburg is an official observer." 

Jim could feel the offense coming from Blair, and he spoke up. "He's my partner. Without him, I would have a very difficult time." 

"Of course," Simon added. "That came out wrong. I'm sorry. Sandburg is an invaluable asset to this department. You were saying, Agent Oestend." 

"I head up a unit which is tracking down a serial killer who I believe has just entered Washington." He handed Jim the file, which Jim promptly gave to Blair unopened. "His first victim was discovered in San Diego several years ago. I've been tracking him ever since. From the pattern I can discern, he tends to kill one victim in each large West Coast city before heading north. He's struck in San Diego, L.A., Santa Barbara and San Francisco. Last week, we discovered a body in Portland. I'm not sure which city in Washington he's picked, but I damn sure want to stop him before he gets to Vancouver." 

"What's his M.O.?" Jim asked. 

"Here." Blair handed him the file, a little green in the face. 

"Rather sick little monster. He uses a cocktail of nerve toxins, each time a little different. And, he manages to inject the poison using a different method for each kill. In L.A., he waited under the victim's car and stabbed her with a syringe through her ankle. In Santa Barbara, he actually fed a slow acting agent to a man in his salad dressing over dinner. The rest are in the file. Then he uses a scalpel or an Xacto knife to sever the carotid artery. While the victim is paralyzed, conscious and bleeding to death, he carves poetry into the victim's chest and stomach." 

"Poetry?" Jim asked while flipping through the photographs in the file. 

"I'll never read Emily Dickinson again," Blair added, sitting down. 

"Yes," Oestend nodded as he turned to face the window again. "He seems to like Emily Dickinson a lot. Her poems are short and easy to carve. And most of them are about death . . . and grief." His voice began to chill everyone in the room. "I'm sorry," he said as he returned to the others. "I've been tracking him for so long, trying to second guess his moves, his motivations. Anyway, we've started calling him Weird Em." 

"Weird M?" 

"Weird Emily." Blair piped up as the others looked at him. "It's a joke the English professors pass back and forth. Some people believe Emily Dickinson was a little touched in the head, and that she would dance in her garden at night wearing a white dress. That sort of stuff." He froze. "I'm sorry." Blair began to feel uncomfortable at Jim and Simon's stares. 

"Sandburg," Simon said, "you never cease to amaze me." 

"That's why I keep him," Jim added with a friendly pat on the back. 

"What, like I'm a dog?" Blair raised up his hands like paws. 

"As I was saying," Oestand interrupted. "I'm not sure whether Weird Em is in Olympia, Tacoma or Seattle. Almost all of my men are spread out in those three cities. I'm up here just to check this place out. This is my old home. I lived here about twenty years ago. Cascade is a long shot, but I wanted to make sure the coast was covered in case Weird Em skips the bigger cities and falls here." 

"Jim, I want you and Sandburg to familiarize yourself with this case. If you so much as see anything that sets off a warning, you'll contact Agent Oestend directly." As they were leaving, Simon added, "Oh, and check out the chemicals used in his little cocktails. I want your nose familiar with them." 

"His nose?" Oestend asked. 

"Figure of speech," Simon added quickly. 

* * *

Finally, at six o'clock that same day, Jim pushed himself away from his desk with a stretch. "Come on, Chief, let's take our homework home with us." 

"Ah, no, big guy. _You_ have homework tonight." 

"What do you mean?" 

" _I_ have a date tonight." 

"A what?" Jim felt his stomach cramp. "A date?" 

Simon heard Jim as he was stepping out of his office with his coat on his arm. "Who has a date?" 

"I do. The new file clerk in Traffic." 

"I don't know him," Jim said. 

"Her," Blair corrected. "Debra Fitzsimmons." 

Jim didn't know what to say. /A woman? Blair's going out on a date with a woman?/ 

"See ya guys. And Jim, don't wait up for me." 

Both Simon and Jim were speechless as they watched Blair leave. "Jim, I don't want to sound confused, but wasn't Blair . . ." he searched for the word, "dating that Australian guy that got killed?" 

"Yeah, I know, sir. I don't know what to make of it, either." 

* * *

The weather was cold in Olympia, but the jogger had decided to run in shorts anyway. He jogged around the perimeter of the Washington State capitol as the sun began to rise over the Cascade Mountains. He didn't seem to notice the gardener standing near the curb with a spike, picking up the trash. 

Nor did he feel the scrape of the spike against his thigh. His body froze as the pavement rose to meet his face. 

* * *

"How'd your date with Debra go?" Ryf asked as Jim and Blair entered the bullpen. 

"Sorry, guy," Blair answered with a grin. "I don't kiss and tell." 

Secretly Jim was glad to hear that. He didn't want to even know the slightest detail. Blair had been going out with Debra over the past three weekends, and Jim wasn't sure why he felt so angry. /Jealous? Or maybe it's because you lost out on the one chance Blair will ever take with another man?/ 

"Jim?" Simon peeked his head out of his office. 

"Yes, sir?" 

Simon just wiggled his finger for them to step inside his office. Once inside, they both recognized the still figure of Agent Oestend at the window. 

"Another Weird Em?" Blair piped up when he saw the agent. Simon passed Jim the file. Jim wasn't interested. Something about Oestend was really bothering him now. /Maybe I'm displacing my anger over Blair./ Then Jim stopped and realized what an effect Blair was having even on the words he used when he thought. Shaking it from his mind, he returned to his angry examination of the FBI agent. 

Blair read the details. "A scratch on the thigh?" 

"Not sure what did it," Oestend answered. 

"How does he score all these neurotoxins?" Blair asked. 

"Don't worry about that, son," Oestend answered in a patronizing tone. "I have my men already working on that. I'm just up here to give you a head's up. He struck much sooner than we expected, which I think means he lives near here. He has less distance to travel. I'll have two agents working full time in Cascade now. We suspect Tacoma and Seattle will be next, but we want to be ready in case he strikes here." 

"Another Emily Dickinson poem," Blair mentioned to Jim. 

"You recognized it?" Oestend asked, surprised. 

"Yeah. I started reading her poems when you were last here. 'This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me.' He didn't write the rest." 

"I doubt he had the room," Oestend added. 

"Anyway," Simon interrupted. "You two keep a nose out for those chemicals. Anything suspicious and contact either of these two agents." Simon handed Jim the cards. 

As they were leaving, Jim stopped in the doorway. He felt like he was possessed as his body turned and his subconscious took over his mouth. "Agent Oestend?" 

"Yes?" 

"How long have you practiced bio-feedback?" Jim listened to the fed's heartbeat spike, the first time this human metronome lost its beat. After about eight quick burst, his heartbeat returned to normal. 

"For a few years now. How . . . how did you know?" 

"I just noticed." Then he left. 

Simon wiped the smile from his face when Oestend said to him, "I'll be damned." 

"I told you he was good." 

"Hmmm." Oestend stared at Jim through the slats of Simon's blinds. "Yes." 

* * *

Out in the bullpen, Blair turned to Jim. "What the hell was that all about?" 

"What?" 

"That comment about the bio-feedback?" 

"Oh." Jim sat down at his desk. 

"Well." 

"I don't know, Chief. I can't put my finger on it." Jim sought for words. "Maybe I've been hearing people around me for too long. You know, the way they sound -- heart beats and breathing. When we first met him, he just . . . he just sounds like a machine. He's not . . . natural." 

Blair grinned. 

"What? What are you grinning about?" 

"You! I can't believe Jim Ellison is harping about a guy who's not 'natural.' That's supposed to be my line." 

"Yeah, well, whatever. I'm telling you, Chief, something's not right about this guy. Why would you need to control your breathing and heart rate . . . all the time? What's he trying to control?" 

Just then, Oestend left Simon's office. As he walked past Jim's desk, he just nodded. "Gentlemen." 

Jim stared at him as he walked out, feeling even more ill at ease. 

Blair looked down at the name of the agents on the business cards, then turned to Jim. "This has to be a joke." 

"What?" 

"The names of these agents. Here, look." 

* * *

Another week passed, and Blair continued to turn down offers to spend time with Jim. Instead, Debra became the focus of his attention. Jim felt himself closing off, saying less and less. One afternoon, Blair sat down at Jim's desk and started sorting through the files. He came across one, then froze. "Jim?" 

Jim looked up and recognized the startled look on Blair's face. "What?" 

"How long have you had this?" 

Jim looked at it. It was the latest report on Weird Em. "A while." 

"And you weren't going to tell me?" 

"I just didn't think of it." 

"Weird Em? You forgot to tell me about Weird Em?" 

"Yeah, well, you were busy." 

"Busy?! Too busy to know that he struck in Tacoma?! Come on, Jim!" 

"Blair, I thought you were too busy!" Jim said in an angry, accusatory tone that Blair instantly recognized. "And then I forgot about it. You got it? Besides, it's the feds' case. Let them handle it." 

Blair tried to hide the fact that he was hurt. He had suspected something was wrong between the two of them. Now he was sure. He just had to figure out what it was. 

* * *

Special Agent Dale Mulder walked down the sterile hallway in a huff. Weird Em, the serial killer he and his partner had been trying to track down, had killed again in Tacoma and their team was no where near to breaking the case. Yet, even as he growled internally over their lack of progress, deep down he knew why he was so angry. 

Lately, every time he had tried to interview a witness, they had laughed at him. "Special Agent Mulder? Is this some kind of joke?" Mulder's shoulders tightened. The fact that he bore a slight resemblance to the television character made it even worse. 

He looked over his shoulder at his partner, then rolled his eyes. /I know they assigned me this rookie as a joke. Well, ha ha fuck them./ His partner, Moira Kennedy, was fresh out of the academy. Short, with red hair, she looked like an slightly overweight version of Scully, with even less of a sense of humor than the X-Files character. 

/Damnit,/ Mulder thought, /I'm fucking quitting until that damn show goes off the air./ 

In his anger, he barged into the profile room, even though Oestend, his supervisor, had told him countless times to knock first. 

He froze in the doorway. What he saw always disturbed him. Oestend held a black and white image of Emily Dickinson -- so bird-like and frail in the antique picture with her hair pulled back. He was humming something which Mulder couldn't place, but he did recognize it as one of Dickinson's more common meters. In his other hand, Oestend held a sharp Xacto knife, precisely carving letters in the air. 

"Sir?" 

Oestand jerked as if electrocuted, dropping both the knife and the image. He drew in his breath in gasps before regaining control, then his temper exploded. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" Oestend grabbed a book and flung it at the two agents. 

Mulder ducked just as the book flew over his head and into the hall. He scrambled out of the room and slammed the door. He knew Oestend was one of the best psychological profilers in the agency, and that he often pretended to be the killer to second-guess his next move. Still, it disturbed him greatly. "Fuck," he muttered as he ran his hands over his short brown hair, "I hate my job." 

"Then just quit," Moira said matter-of-factly before biting at her fingernails as she turned to leave. 

* * *

Jim knew the jig was up by the time they got home to the loft. Blair seemed to thrive on Jim's inner psychological battles, and whenever he discovered one he was like a dog to a bone. Jim silently ate dinner, ignoring Blair's attempts at passive-aggressive probing to get him to talk. Jim knew he was angry at Blair, he knew it had to do with Blair dating Debra /and not me,/ but nagging fears kept him from addressing the real issue -- that he was in love and felt spurned, again. 

After dinner, Blair gave up the subtle approach and became more direct and a little pissed. "Okay, big guy, are we going to talk about this or not?" 

"Blair, I'm tired. I'm stressed out. And I don't really think there's anything for us to discuss." 

"Jim Ellison. Queen of Denial." 

Jim stormed into the kitchen. Blair rolled his eyes, then girded his loins for this one task he really didn't want to do -- chasing after him. "All right, Jim, that did it. Spit it out." 

Jim didn't answer him as he removed the dishes from the dish washer, only to rinse them off in the sink. 

"Come on, I know you're angry, so tell me what's up." 

"I'm. Not. Angry." The words pressed through Jim's clenched teeth. 

"Jim, you are washing dishes that are already clean. And you know this." 

Jim stopped, gripping a wet coffee cup by the handle. His anger at being spurned was now mixing with fear, fear of losing control, fear that Blair would discover Jim's feelings. /Would that be so bad?/ Then Jim thought about why he was so afraid. /Jim, if you couldn't stand up to the Army to protect Tom, would you stand up to the Cascade PD to protect Blair?/ 

"You have been like so pissy the past few weeks. What crawled up your ass?" 

"I don't want to talk about it." He could feel his heart beginning to race. 

"I know you don't, but I do. It has to do with me. I can tell." 

"It's not--" 

"Jim, I don't have to be sentinel to tell when you're lying. You are pissed at me, and it's going to stop now." 

Blair was snaring him in a trap, and Jim could feel himself panic. /He's going to make me say this. He's going to push me and I'm not ready, I'm not ready./ "Blair, don't push me." 

"You've been pissed since . . . wait a minute. You've been pissed since I started dating Debra!" 

Before Jim realized it, at the sound of Debra's name, he lifted the cup by the handle and smashed it down on the kitchen counter. The shattering china startled Blair, making him step back. Jim looked down to see just the white curved handle in his fingers. 

"Whoa, dude," Blair brought up his hands in surrender as Jim stormed past him. Then his own anger bubbled up as he realized Jim really was angry at him for dating Debra. "Wait a minute! You're pissed that I'm dating Debra?!" 

Jim spun on his heels. He was completely at a loss for words. 

"What right have you got to be pissed at me for dating Debra, huh?" Blair stormed at Jim and poked him in the chest with his finger. "What right have you got?!" 

"I just . . ." Jim tried to formulate his thoughts. "I just don't understand you, is all." 

"Understand what?" Blair suddenly felt very cold. /You are not about to say what I think you're going to say. You are not going to throw Jack in my face./ 

And Jim sputtered, "What . . . what about Jack?" 

Blair's eyes grew wide in surprise. "Oh my god. You said it." Blair threw up his hands in rage and began pacing. "I can't believe you . . . Fuck you! Fuck you!" he shouted. Then he started counting out loud, taking deep breaths as his pacing grew even more rapid. When he hit ten, he took one long, deep breath before turning on Jim full force. "Of all the things I thought you would ever say to me. Of all the shitty things that you've said and I've said nothing back. That has got to be the shittiest thing ever! How dare you?! Don't you think I have enough guilt to deal with here?! Huh? Don't you think that I have enough problems getting up every morning thinking that if Jack had never met me, he'd be alive today, maybe happy with some other guy, but at least alive? Huh? Have you got any fucking idea?!" 

Jim was now more than ever speechless. /No, that's not what I meant./ And his fear was continuing to rise. 

"You! You of all people have no right to say this to me!" 

"Blair, I--" 

"Jim, I am _dying_ inside. I'm fucking dying and I can stay here in this house with you every night and die a little more--" 

Jim closed his mouth tight as he felt a sharp stab. 

"--or I can go outside and try and start my life all over. I would have thought that was what you wanted me to do. You . . . you have no right. No right!" 

Jim was still reeling that Blair had compared their time together as dying inside. "Hey, I have at least hit a nerve here." 

Blair threw up his hands again. "Will you shut the fuck up? There is nothing you need to say to me. Ever!" 

"What are you saying?" 

"I can't believe you would even try to make me feel guilty for going out with Debra. It has been almost nine months since Jack died. Nine months! What . . . what kind of friend are you? How could you do this?" 

"You're over-reacting." Jim turned to leave. He had to retreat, get his thoughts back. Then suddenly he felt the air pressure change around him, and he ducked away from it just as a drinking glass whizzed past his ear, smashing against the exposed brick of their loft. 

Blair watched as Jim's spine straightened, his shoulders rolling back. He pivoted on his heel and stared hard at his guide, the anger boiling but controlled. "I'm going to pretend that didn't happen," he growled. 

"Oh, you ought to be pretty damn good at pretending!" 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"What have I been to you all these years? Huh? A safety net? Is that why you accepted Jack so easily? You just wanted me to stick around? Keep you out of harm's way? And to think that I . . ." 

"That you what?" Jim approached, sensing Blair's misstep. 

"Nothing," he waved his hands. 

"Now who's pretending?" Jim added with a snarl, before turning to escape up the stairs. 

Blair watched him go. /Me? Pretending?/ Like an electric shock, he remembered when Jim confessed that he had recognized Jack and Blair's relationship. /He said he smelled our pheremones. Our pheremones. Did Jim smell them before, when I was around him? Before I met Jack? Did he know I had been having dreams about him, that I wanted him?/ Blair watched Jim disappear upstairs. /Does he know I love him, and that I've . . . / 

And Jim sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. /Oh, God, that is not what I wanted to say. What's wrong with me?/ Yet he didn't know how to change this, or even if he should. /Maybe it's better this way. Blair won't get hurt. Now he's just pissed./ Jim shook his head. He thought back to the look on Tom's face when the Army had scared him from a man he thought he loved with all his heart. /Will they make me do it again?/ he wondered, considering the Cascade PD. /Simon and Joel and Ryf?/ 

Then he heard the door close slowly as Blair left. The sound came to his ears like a slap. 

* * *

Late at night, in the offices the FBI had set up in Seattle for the Weird Em investigation, Oestend remained alone in the profile room. On the table lay the diagram of a human chest, and scattered around were books open to Emily Dickinson's poetry. 

With his knife, Oestend practiced the letters on the flesh. /Tonight,/ he thought as the knife came down on the drawing. /Tonight./ 

* * *

"Where are you going?" Debra asked as she watched Blair dress. They had only finished a few minutes ago. 

"I don't know." 

"You don't know? What the hell kind of answer is that?" 

"I've got a lot on my mind tonight." 

"And so you're just going to leave?" Blair didn't have an answer for her, but sat down on the bed to tie his shoes. "I should have known," she said finally. 

"Known what?" 

"All the other women at the station said not to go out with you. That you were a pig." She spit the last word out. Blair, with his back to her, closed his eyes. "That you just used women and ran out on them." 

"Fine. Maybe it's better that you believe that about me up front. Then you'll just be mad at me. And I won't hurt you by mistake." 

"I hope someone returns that comment to you," she said as she rolled her back to him. "And soon!" 

* * *

It was 2 a.m. Blair was sitting in a corner booth of the coffee shop where he and Jim spent most of their off time. He had left Debra over an hour ago while she protested, the sheets wrapped around her chest, and now he sat silently, staring forward, his mind tumbling and turning. He didn't even notice the two uniformed officers walk in. 

"Hey," one of them said, nudging the other, "look, it's Hairboy." 

Blair heard his nickname and looked up. He recognized the dark-haired officer, Stewart. He didn't know the other. /Like I care./ 

As they both came up to the counter, he could hear parts of Stewart's ramble. "He works with Jim Ellison -- Major Crimes -- an outside consultant -- highest conviction rate of anyone on the force. Hey, Hairboy, what are you doing here this late?" 

Blair shook himself into reality, not realizing at first that Stewart was talking to him. The guide just shrugged his shoulders. 

"Get kicked out?" 

"Kind of," Blair answered. 

Stewart just laughed. "Blair here has more dates than anyone I've ever known." 

"Damn," the other cop started, "is there anything you don't do?" 

"Windows," Blair answered. 

"Well, if you ever want to quit working with Jim, I'd sure as hell want you for a partner. Then I'd get off this beat." 

"I doubt I'd be much good to you." 

"Well that's a shame," Stewart said. Then he jabbed his partner with his elbow. "Come on. Let's get our coffee and get out of here before someone says we're hanging out at the coffee shop too long. Good seeing you, Hairboy. See you back at the station." 

"Sure." /Ugh, they're gone./ Blair returned to rubbing his chin and thinking about the mess his life had turned into since last winter. He watched the two officers hurry back to their car and thought about the comments they had made. /Yeah, Jim doesn't need me. He doesn't need me any more. And I can always find another dissertation, if I don't have enough data as it is. Hell, grad students change that stuff all the time./ Outside, the weather had turned wet and cold, and he really didn't have a place to stay. He should have stayed with Debra, but he just couldn't. Jim had stabbed him in the worst place, and all he could think about was Jack. 

* * *

Blair called up his friend Dave. "Hey, Dave, you remember that favor you owe me?" 

"What favor?" 

"For getting Jim to talk Vice into just confiscating the joint they found on you instead of prosecuting?" 

"Hey, that was way less than an ounce. They wouldn't have prosecuted." 

"Dave?" 

"Yeah, all right, what?" 

"Can I crash on your couch for a few days? I need a place to stay." 

"Is that all?" 

"Yeah." 

"Wait. You ain't planning on crashing here as long as you crashed at Jim's, are you?" 

"No. I promise." 

"Okay. A week, tops." 

Blair laughed to himself as he hung up the phone. That was how long he had told Jim he'd be crashing at the loft. "Okay, okay," he said out loud to himself. "A week in dog years." 

* * *

"Jim, can you come in to my office?" 

Jim entered Simon's office, and he could sense the captain was upset. "What is it?" 

"This." He handed him Blair's observer badge. 

"What is this?" 

"Sandburg handed this in earlier this morning. Said he wouldn't be coming back." 

"He what?!" 

"Jim, I don't want to even know what went down between you two. That is not my business. But for now, I'm assigning you to Forensics." 

"You what?!" 

"You heard me. You are off active duty for now." 

"What?! What for?!" 

"Keep your voice down." Simon stared him down. "This is for the best." 

Jim paced around the office before flinging one of the chairs to the floor. "What right have you got?!" he shouted. 

Simon's temper flared. "Do you know why I even let that kid in here? Because when you came back from Peru, you came back messed up. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Messed up. This Sentinel thing is all part and parcel of it." 

Jim lost his voice. He stood still with his mouth open. 

"And Blair knew all that jungle mumbo-jumbo to keep you in line. So until he comes back, or I know you're all right, I'm not placing you on active duty. Capiche?" 

Jim stared at him for a while, then reached for his gun. He dropped it on the desk. 

"Jim, don't do this." 

Then he flung his badge on the desk. 

"Jim!" Simon called out to him as he started to leave. When Jim wouldn't respond, Simon grabbed his shoulder just as he opened the door. 

Jim spun around, pushing Simon against the glass door with a bang. "Don't you touch me," he growled. 

Simon grabbed Jim just as fiercely. "Now you listen to me. I'm not about to have you zone out on a crime scene. Do you hear me? Not just because you're putting other men in jeopardy. But because I don't want to see my best friend taken down. You got that? I could never do something like that to my best friend." 

Jim shoved him back. "You just did, Simon. You just did." 

* * *

Jim slammed the door to the loft behind him, then realized Blair was home. His guide, his former guide, stood in the doorway to his room with a duffel bag in his hand. 

"Jim? I didn't think you'd be here." 

"Yeah? Well, guess what? I lost my job today." 

"You what?" 

"Yeah, Chief, seems like Simon won't have me without you. Go figure." Then Jim noticed the duffel bag. "So, what? You're moving out, too?" He didn't give Blair a chance. "Fine, just get the hell out." 

"Just like that?" 

Jim turned to look at him in surprise. "'Just like that?' Yeah, just like that! Just like you, huh?" Jim started to climb the stairs, then turned around to say. "And you know what? If you had come home just once in the past couple of days, I would have told you I was sorry. I would have tried to explain to you that I didn't mean to bring up Jack's name to make you feel guilty. What I meant was that I thought you had discovered you wanted to be with a man. Period." 

It was Blair's turn to be speechless. 

"But you didn't. You thought so little of me, wanted to get out so goddamn badly that you just took off and quit on me. Well, fine! Thank you for letting me know! Oh, and by the way, fuck you, too! The sooner you get the hell away from me, the better!" Jim stormed out of the loft, slamming the door after him. 

Blair slumped on the couch, holding his face with his hands. "Oh, man, this is like so not good." 

* * *

Blair returned to Dave's apartment. He had been crashing on the sofa now for a few days, and he knew he needed to call Naomi before she tried to call at the loft. 

"Mom?" 

"Blair? Where are you? I tried to call and Jim said you had moved out. And then the pig hung the phone up on me!" 

"Cool your jets. I know your timing. I figured you'd call while I was gone." 

"Weren't you going to tell me you had moved out?" 

"This only happened yesterday." 

"Oh." 

"Like you have any room to speak. I never know where you are." 

"Okay, okay. Let's not go there. Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

"What happened?" 

"We just lost our tempers." 

"And you moved out?" 

"Okay, so we really lost our tempers." 

"He didn't hurt you, did he? Dirty pig." 

"Stop with the pig comments. He's not like that." 

"Okay, you moved out, and now you're defending him? Would that I had your nobility." 

Blair sighed, rolling his head around to relax his neck muscles. "I am like so not in the mood for this." 

"Sorry," Naomi whispered. "Tell me what happened." 

"I don't--" 

"Blair. Spill." 

"All right. Jim and I had a little miscommunication." 

"About what?" 

"About Jack." 

"Jack?" 

"Yeah. I . . . I started dating someone. A woman." 

"A woman?" 

"Yes, a woman. Don't sound so surprised. You're as bad as Jim. I can date women, can't I?" 

"Blair, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought that you wanted to be with Jack." 

"Yeah, well, I'd still be with Jack if he wasn't DEAD!" 

Blair could hear Naomi suck in a deep, slow breath. 

"Blair, you're confusing me. Let's take a cleansing breath and start over. What did Jim have to say?" 

"Oh, Jim. He didn't know what to make of me going out with Debra and when he tried to explain how confused he was, I misinterpreted it. I thought he was trying to tell me I should feel guilty for going out with anybody, let alone Debra, because Jack had died so recently. Like I didn't love Jack." 

"And you were already feeling that, weren't you? That's why you thought he was implying you should feel guilty. That's why you just snapped at me." 

"Yeah. I'm sorry." 

"How'd you handle it?" 

"I really blew my top. I quit, turned in my observer's badge. And Jim said he got fired." 

"Ew. When you fought the first time, was he really pissed?" 

"I'll say. He smashed a coffee cup with his bare hands." 

"I thought as much. Typical Martian response." 

"What are you saying?" 

"Men are from Mars, women are--" 

"Yeah yeah, I know all that. I mean, where are you going with this?" 

"Do you remember when you first met him? You told me he was really brutal. That he threw you around and--" 

"Yeah, but--" 

"But you said he was scared. That he was lashing out at everyone because he was scared and he didn't know how to act, how to express his fear." 

"So what are you saying?" 

"I think Jim's scared. Maybe he's scared that you're about to hurt yourself. He always has been so over protective of you. Or maybe he's scared you'll hurt him." 

Blair remained silent for a long while, before asking, "Where did you come up with this?" 

"I've been working with one of Terence McNally's disciples. We've been working on visually hallucinating our internal struggles. That's when I saw it." 

"Saw what?" 

"Strange actually. I saw you, but you didn't look like you. You looked like someone from an Amazon tribe. And sitting beside you was this black panther, that I knew somehow it was Jim. There were these . . . things . . . hovering all around the panther, spooking him, and when he tried to slap at them, sometimes he hit you by mistake." 

"Oh." Blair became silent again. 

Finally, Naomi asked. "Have you been meditating?" 

"Yeah." 

"Have you been visualizing peaceful images?" 

"Yeah, yeah--" 

"What about a smudge stick? Do you need to buy a new one? Sage always cleanses the air." 

"I've got all that." 

"Hey, Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I love ya. Don't forget it." 

"Thanks, Mom. I'll call you to let you know where I'm at next." 

* * *

When the uniformed policeman looked into Blair's office, Blair wasn't too surprised. "Are you Blair Sandburg?" 

"Yeah. What's up?" 

"Captain Simon Banks asked if I would pick you up. He wants to see you." 

Blair just shrugged his shoulders. He knew Simon wasn't going to let him quit without an explanation. 

* * *

Simon set down the phone. Officer Williams was bringing Blair in. He then called Jim at the loft. 

"Yeah?" 

"Jim, it's Simon. And don't hang up on me this time." 

"What do you want?" 

"If you want active duty again, I suggest you get to my office, ASAP." 

* * *

Jim stepped into Simon's office and saw Blair sitting in one of the chairs. Blair began to stand, but Simon pushed him back into the chair. "You sit." Then to Jim. "That goes for you, too." 

The detective angrily sat down. Simon perched on the edge of his desk. "Now I'm going to tell you two something right now. I don't care what happened between you. It's none of my damn business. But as far as I'm concerned, you've broken the cardinal rule of professionalism." Both men looked at him with dark stares. "You took whatever personal thing was going on between you and you brought it to work. I won't stand for that. You both have a job to do." 

Blair opened his mouth to speak, but Simon stopped him with a sharp finger. "Shut up, Sandburg. You quit without trying to work something out. And you, Jim, you did the same damn thing. You both quit on me, taking the best damn unit off the force when there's a goddamn serial killer on the loose. I got word today that they found a body in Seattle, and that means he's coming to Cascade next. You both ought to be ashamed of yourselves. What can be more important than saving someone's life? Huh?" 

Neither Blair nor Jim could look into Simon's eyes. 

"Fine, then," Simon went on. "Neither one of you will leave this office until you've worked out an arrangement so you can work together. I don't care if you can't stand each other on your own time. But on my time, you'll act like professionals. Is that understood?" When neither of them answered, Simon tried again. "I said, is that understood?" 

"Simon, leave the room," Jim answered in a tight whisper. 

"What?" 

"You heard me. This is between me and Blair." 

Simon looked hard at both of them. "All right." Before he closed the door behind him, he added, "You see those black angels over there?" He pointed to the porcelain collectibles at the window. "They better be in one piece when I get back." Then he slammed the door. 

"I guess he means we can break everything else," Blair tried to crack a joke. 

Jim stood, walked toward the window and stared out in silence. After a long while, he said in a tired voice. "I said I was sorry. What more do you want?" 

Breathing deeply, Blair gathered up his strength before confessing, "Maybe I feel too bad to come back." 

"Feel too bad?" Jim turned, then knelt down in front of Blair. "Blair, what's wrong?" His blue eyes were so full of concern and Blessed Protector mode. Blair's soul was a jumble of emotions -- sorrow for Jack, still -- longing for Jim \-- and a need to break free from both of them. But deep down, he was still a little angry. He kept remembering Naomi's words, reminding him of his own assessment of Jim's quirks -- that when he was scared, he was brutal. 

Lifting his head, Blair eyed Jim with a determined stare and asked, "What are _you_ afraid of?" 

Jim swallowed, then stood again to return to the window. 

Blair continued. "You're only this angry at me when you're frightened. You always lash out. And that night, when you smashed the coffee cup, what was up with that?" 

The sentinel rubbed his eyes with his hand. /It comes to this. Do you come clean this time? Or do you keep hiding?/ He looked over at Blair, who stared at him calmly. He gathered up his courage and admitted, "Blair, I just didn't want to see you hurt again. . . ." He trailed off, unable to finish. 

Blair didn't realize Jim had more to say and interrupted. "Jim--" 

"Chief, I've seen you suffering for almost a year now. Do you think I can take seeing you hurt again--" He started to add, 'especially if I was the one who did it,' but Blair cut him short again. 

"Jim. Big guy. I appreciate the concern. Really I do. But I'm 28 years old. You can't protect me from everything. Let me live my life, okay?" 

He stared at Blair. /He still doesn't get it. He still doesn't get it./ He looked at his fingers. Inside, his guilt was killing him, for letting this lie go on, for not telling Blair he was hopelessly in love with him but was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Before he realized it, Blair was standing in front of him with his hands covering Jim's. 

"Jim, I'm sorry I got so angry. I'm sorry I blew off the handle. I don't know how to tell you to treat me with kid gloves on some things, and to treat me no different on others. I don't know what's going to set me off or hurt me or what. And I know you're scared, too. I know that. But you can't be any more scared than I am." 

Jim felt even more guilt as his mouth spoke when his mind was still in shock. "Will you come back to the loft, Blair?" 

"Yeah." 

"Will you come back to the force?" 

"Yeah." 

Jim shifted from one foot to the next, still never making eye contact with Blair. 

"I'll go tell Simon," Blair broke the silence. He left Jim alone. Jim watched him leave, feeling more guilt than ever. 

* * *

It was way too cold for Jim to be standing on the balcony, but he had to get out of the loft. Yet if he left the building altogether, Blair would sense he was uncomfortable, maybe even still angry. He huddled into his coat and shivered. 

Blair realized Jim was still feeling a little gun shy. He grabbed his books and headed for his room. 

Jim was lost in thought and didn't notice him leave. /Jim, you've got to say something. This is ridiculous. But look at the way he's acting, the way we're both acting. He still hasn't come to terms with what happened to Jack. And I still haven't come to terms with being afraid. Now's not the time for this. We still have too much to work out. And if I really love Blair, then this needs to be done right./ Ten minutes later, the winter weather was too much for him, and he went back inside. 

Inside, Jim searched for Blair's heartbeat. He heard him inside his room. He was awake, reading. And there was another sound, a voice. /He must be listening to a CD on his discman. / He recognized the voice -- Tracy Chapman. /God, why does Blair always have to listen to that whiny complaint rock?/ Even so, her lyrics were so easy to recognize. 

[Sorry] [Is all that you can say.] [Years gone by and still] [Words don't come easily] [Like sorry, like sorry.] 

[But you can say baby,] [Baby can I hold you tonight?] [Maybe if I told you the right words] [At the right time, you'd be mine.] 

Jim rolled his head back. /Ugh./ Still, the lyrics struck hard. He made as much noise as he could, shucking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack. Yet the final lyrics stabbed him. 

[I love you] [Years gone by and still] [words don't come easily] [like I love you, I love you.] 

[But you can say baby] [Baby can I hold you tonight?] [Maybe if I told you the right words] [At the right time, you'd be mine.] 

In his room, Blair couldn't stand the lyrics any more than Jim. He quickly turned off the discman and tossed the headphones aside, rubbing his face in frustration. 

Jim recognized the sounds and guessed Blair would be coming out of his room soon. /Now would be a good time for a retreat./ Defeated, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and uneasy sleep. 

* * *

Jim and Blair had come to the waterfront to seek out one of Jim's informants for a fraud and embezzlement case involving a shipping company. They waited with their backs against the cold metal siding of a warehouse, watching the gulls skim back and forth, listening to the lap of dark water against the piers. After an hour of waiting in the cold, Blair finally let out a jerking shiver, then began slapping at his arms. 

"Come on, Chief. No sense giving you a cold. This guy's not showing." 

Blair breathed into his cupped hands and nodded. They had become so quiet in the week following their last argument. Even Jim felt a need to pull Blair aside and talk. Jim took an alternate route back to his truck because the sun was shining on this side of the wharf, and he could sense that the temperature was a few degrees warmer. If Blair noticed, Jim couldn't tell; he silently followed behind his sentinel. 

Then Jim stopped. So suddenly that Blair ran into his back. Jim just turned with a smile. 

"What's up, big guy?" 

"I smell something." 

"Dead fish?" 

"Ha ha. No, I smell something . . . chemical." 

"Pollution?" Blair's tone was still ironic. 

"Are you going to help or not?" 

"Fine. Focus on the smell, Jim. What is it that you recognize about the smell?" 

"It smells like a drug. Wait, it smells like the drugs Simon had me sniff back in Forensics." 

"Weird Em?" 

"Yeah." Then Jim could sense Blair's heartbeat spike. "Calm down, Chief." Once Jim recognized Blair's controlled breathing techniques, he began tracing the scent again. /Must be a body. Damnit. We're too late./ As his anger rose, so did the scent, stronger and stronger until finally Jim said, "Chief, this stuff isn't residual. There's a lot of it here somewhere." 

Jim stopped in front of a metal warehouse, then tested the door. It was locked. He reached into his pocket for his Swiss Army knife to begin picking the lock. 

"Uhm, Jim, what are you doing?" 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" 

"It looks to me like you are infringing on someone's constitutional right against illegal search and seizure." 

Jim rolled his head back. "But I have just cause. I can smell the drugs used in the serial killings." 

"But owning those drugs may not be a crime, and breaking in there is like so uncool." 

Jim had heard the last of the tumblers fall inside the lock when Blair began his objections. "Fine, Blair. You go back to the truck and call Simon. Tell him what I've found and let him get all the paperwork settled. Then get back here. You and I will wait here and see if anyone comes in or goes out." 

The sentinel watched Blair reluctantly walk back to the truck. When he was some distance away, Jim reached for the doorknob and turned it. 

Blair heard the explosion first, a loud puff, then immediately ran back to Jim. The air was filled with an orange dust, but Blair's mind was so clouded with concern for Jim that he didn't stop to realize the danger of the chemical. When the first smell hit him, Blair felt his knees give out from under him as he fell to his hands to throw up. He couldn't stop it. The wave of nausea was all powerful, cramping his stomach again and again, non-stop while his mind hovered above it, thinking, /What the hell is happening here?/ 

Then his anxiety for Jim peaked, and despite the eerie sickness, Blair crawled toward him. By this time, Blair was only suffering dry heaves. Leaning over an unconscious Jim, Blair could see the even dusting of orange, all over his body. When he felt for a pulse, the orange dust started to sting his skin. Jim's pulse was strong and steady. 

Grabbing him by the lapels of his leather jacket, Blair lifted him off the ground. His back strained with the effort, but he had to get this dust off Jim and soon. There was a water spigot just a few feet away. With a loud grunt, he started to drag him, when the unexpected fireball of the warehouse exploding flattened him on his back and knocked him unconscious. 

* * *

When Blair came to, he recognized the smell of the hospital before his eyes even registered the blank walls and sterile equipment. He mumbled a half-hearted "Where am I?" as he lifted himself off the bed. 

Simon, standing over Jim's bed, came over and pushed Blair back onto the mattress. "Easy, there, Sandburg." 

"Simon? What happened?" 

"You and Jim must have found our little serial killer's storage room. He had it booby trapped. At least that's what the fire department thinks." 

"Then it was Weird Em?" 

"It was Weird Em, all right. All we were able to pick up from the scene were traces of the chemical agents he used. All the evidence of how and where he got this stuff went up with the fire. Almost got you two in the bargain." 

"Jim?" Blair sat up again. "How's Jim?" He saw Jim lying in the bed next to his and started to go to him. 

"Stay," Simon commanded. "He's doing fine. He took a much heavier hit than you did. He's got to sleep it off." 

Then Blair felt the IV needle still in his wrist. "What did they put in me." 

"Just fluids. You were pretty dehydrated when they got to you. So were the firemen who arrived on the scene. Pretty nasty booby trap, I'd say. And they just got the smell. They didn't even get a dose of what Jim had." 

"Jim?" Blair sat up again. "What did Jim have?" 

"Sandburg, stay down." Simon pushed him back. "Dr. Everett thinks it was just a nerve toxin that paralyzed his voluntary muscles. Jim is fine. The both of you are fine but here for observation." 

"Can I see him?" 

Simon gave him an exasperated look, then stepped aside. "See?" he pointed. 

Blair looked over at Jim, who slept peacefully. There were no breathing tubes. The IV drip had been disconnected. Blair sat back and said, "Fine." 

* * *

Jim did not wake at all that day. The next morning, Simon came in to visit. He waited an hour, then looked at his watch and said, "Well, if he doesn't wake up soon, I'll head on to the office." 

"Simon, it's Saturday." 

"Yeah, but this Weird Em case is still open. And you and Jim walked in there without a warrant." 

"Jim said he smelled the drugs." 

"I figured as much. What was he thinking?" 

"Jim's been . . . distracted lately." 

"You'll keep me updated on Jim, won't you?" he asked while watching Blair sit down on the mattress next to the sentinel. 

Just then Dr. Everett stepped into the room with a hearty laugh. "Well, looks like my best customers are back." 

Blair turned; with his clothes exposed to the nerve toxins, the nurses had let the young man borrow a pair of surgical scrubs. "Dr. Everett," Blair said with a smile. "Pleasure keeping you in business. How long before Jim wakes up?" 

"He's not awake? I figured he'd be up by now." He walked around to the left hand side of the bed and felt his pulse. Blair stood up and moved behind Simon. 

Jim awoke to a blaze of senses. As he opened his eyes, green and yellow flashes sparked and bubbled. No detailed shapes, just blobs. /Golden?/ he wondered? Then cigar smoke, thick and acrid. He knew it was Simon, but why was Simon smoking in a hospital? /Wait, I'm in a hospital?/ He recognized the tiny blips of heart monitors coming from all around him. His mouth had such a bitter taste. "What's going on?" 

And when he spoke, nothing came out. Just a raspy cough. 

Then he smelled Blair. "Blair?" 

"Don't talk." He heard Simon's voice. 

"Where's Blair?" 

Simon couldn't understand him, except for a harsh "b" sound. "Hey, Blair, step over here." 

Jim felt the mattress shift like a swelling wave. /What's going on with my senses?/ He could smell Blair, stronger than ever before, and he could hear the pounding of his heart. Something touched his hand. It was wet and pumping, and Jim recoiled as his mind imagined he could feel Blair's wet pumping heart in his hand. 

"Jim?" Blair's voice echoed sharply underneath a constant, high-pitched whine. "Jim, what is it?" 

"My senses. Off the wire." 

"Jim, I can't understand you. Did you say your senses?" 

Jim nodded, and when he did, he felt his body reeling. Blair's voice rang inside his head. "Can you hear, Jim?" Again he nodded. "Can you see?" He shook his head. "Can you feel?" Blair touched his hand, and Jim pulled back. 

Then Jim heard a doctor's voice, one that he recognized but couldn't place. "Mr. Sandburg, don't encourage Mr. Ellison to talk. His vocal chords have been burned by the toxins." 

"Toxins?" No one recognized Jim's words. Blair place his open hand on Jim's chest. Jim could feel each finger spread like fire on his skin, but it calmed him some. 

"Jim, don't speak," Blair said again. "We were exposed to the neurotoxins that Weird Em used. It didn't hurt us. We just have to wait for them to flush out of our systems." 

All of a sudden, his sense of touch flared. The needle in his wrist felt like an iron bar. The bed stung him all over, and the air seemed to burn. Jim arched his back and shouted, but only a hoarse cry escaped. He heard the doctor shout into the hall, "Nurse, get me a couple of CC's of--" 

Jim's heart stopped. Suddenly, there was nothing. No sound. No heart beats. Nothing. 

Blair noticed Jim's eyes spring open in surprise. "Jim? Jim, what is it?" 

"Blair? Blair, where'd you go? I can't hear you." 

Simon leaned over to Blair. "Did he say he couldn't hear?" 

"I think so? God, Simon, what do I do? I can't touch him." Blair waved his hand over Jim's eyes. Jim could feel the air pass over his face, and he could see a vague purple shape move back and forth. "His eyes are following my hand," Blair said, unheard. 

Then his vision started to grow darker at the edges, constricting into a point, and Jim began to truly panic, struggling as hard as he could, flailing his arms and legs and fighting. "I'm dying oh my God I'm dying, God, don't let me die! Don't let me die!" Simon's cigar smell grew fainter and fainter. Jim wildly swung his arms in panic, feeling a sickening wet softness, then something hard, cracking, before a tingling sensation crept over his skin. 

Simon saw it happen, saw Jim's fist connect to Blair's cheek, knocking him completely off the mattress and against the nearby bed. /I hope you're okay, kid,/ Simon thought as he grabbed Jim by the chest and pushed him down. Already, Jim was beginning to fall into a panic attack as his sense of touch dissipated. His heart beat fiercely, but Jim couldn't feel it. He thought his heart was stopping. He couldn't catch his breath. A darkness was enveloping him -- a pure void of silence and darkness with no up or down. He sank further and further into nothingness. 

The nurse entered with a syringe. Once Jim was sedated, both the doctor and Simon turned to Blair lying on the floor, unconscious. A light thread of blood trickled down his cheek. 

* * *

Blair awoke that afternoon to find himself lying on the hospital bed again. His whole face throbbed, and his left eye was swollen shut. Feeling it, he realized that most of his face was bruised from Jim's surprise punch. /Jim!/ Blair sat up in bed and noticed two doctors standing over the sentinel's bed. "Doctor Everett?" 

"Mr. Sandburg," the older man said. "Good to see you awake." He came over to the bed, lifting Blair's chin. "How do you feel?" 

"I don't really know what happened." 

"Mr. Ellison clocked you pretty good." The older man was laughing, but Blair could feel the embarrassment rising off the second doctor. He looked over and saw an incredibly handsome man, not much older than himself. A tall, slim Japanese man with soft black eyes, sharp cheekbones and a razor thin nose. His thick black hair was parted to the side in an arching wave across his forehead. "Mr. Sandburg, this is our resident neurologist, Dr. Ian Yoshito." 

Blair pulled his legs to hang over the edge of the mattress to face them. When he reached his hand out, Dr. Yoshito didn't notice. Instead, his caramel-colored hand rose to cup Blair's face with his fingertips. "Do you hurt?" he asked in a gentle Oxford accent. 

"Yes," Blair stammered before he realized. "No. I mean, I'm sore, but I'm okay." 

A tiny smile creased Dr. Yoshito's face, and his black eyes sparkled. Blair felt his heart skip a beat, and he swallowed. 

"Captain Banks said you were Mr. Ellison's . . . partner?" 

"And his roommate." 

Still holding Blair's chin with his thumb and forefinger, Dr. Yoshito lifted his eyebrow in a subtle question. Blair read it and shook his head slightly. Dr. Yoshito gave another sly smile before turning to Dr. Everett. "Thank you, doctor. I won't keep you from your other patients. I'll interview Mr. Sandburg about Mr. Ellison's personal history." He looked at Blair once more with concern. "Do you need to keep Mr. Sandburg over night?" 

"That one? No," Dr. Everett said, again in a lighthearted tone. "That's a feisty one. He's taken worse and still kept fighting. You, on the other hand, are in for a surprise if you try to separate these two." As he left, he said to Blair, "Good luck, Mr. Sandburg, and please _try_ to stay out of trouble." 

"Yes sir." Then Blair looked up at Dr. Yoshito and at the strange expression on his face. "What?" 

"How often are you in here?" 

"Don't ask." Blair stood up, and his legs felt wobbly underneath him. Dr. Yoshito instantly grabbed him by the shoulders and guided him back to the bed. 

"Maybe you should remain seated." 

"I'm fine. Just a head rush." Blair stood up again, moved around the doctor, and sat at Jim's side. "How is he?" He reached for Jim's hand and noticed the restraints. "Are these really necessary?" 

"I think you answered that one," Dr. Yoshito replied. "You might be able to take a punch, but I doubt one of our nurses can." He watched as Blair gently brushed his fingertips along Jim's arm. 

"What's wrong with him?" 

"I'm not sure." Dr. Yoshito remained close to Blair. "The agents he was exposed to shouldn't have had the affect that they did." 

"Jim is very sensitive to drugs that affect his senses. I have a list of them at home. When is he going to wake up?" 

Dr. Yoshito checked the chart. "Considering the dose of the sedative, I'd expect sometime around 10 tomorrow morning." 

"Okay," Blair said, standing. "I can go home," then he pointed to the scrubs the nurses had let him wear, "and change." 

"Do you need a lift?" 

"No, I can catch a cab." 

"I insist. You don't even have a coat, do you?" 

Blair looked around, then realized that his coat must have been ruined like his clothes. "I guess not." 

* * *

When they stepped into the entrance of the hospital's parking garage, Dr. Yoshito swept his black cashmere coat over Blair's shoulders. 

"I don't need this," Blair said, trying to take it off. 

"Nonsense. I think the clothes I have on are warmer than yours. That's my car over there." He pointed to a black BMW. 

As Blair sat down in the passenger seat, he looked over at the doctor and asked, "So tell me, Doc--" 

"Please, call me Ian." 

"Okay, Ian, how does a Japanese-American get an Oxford accent?" 

"Cambridge, actually, and Eton before that." Ian started the car. "Don't get me wrong. I received the same treatment there -- bloody bastards stood me up on a table and asked me to name the Father of the Roman gods. Then I was ribbed for not being able to pronounce Jupiter the way I should have." 

"The cultural indoctrination of underclassmen in English public schools has always fascinated me." 

"Which part?" Ian asked as he eased the car onto the street. "The forced accent or the tales of Englishmen falling in love with other boys in the dorm? Where do you live?" 

"On Prospect Street. Do you know where that is?" 

"I know where Prospect Street is." 

"No, wait. Take me to the Police Station." 

"The police?" 

"Yeah. I promised Simon I'd update him on Jim and I never did. I can just run down to the station, and he can give me a lift back." 

"But what if he's not there? It's Saturday." 

"Then one of the other officers can take me home." Blair waited a second before feeling devilish. "Back to that comment about Englishmen in grade school. So did you?" 

"Did I what?" Ian returned his tease with a sly, subtle grin. 

"You know . . ." 

"Yes." Stopped at a red light, Ian secretly enjoyed the look of astonishment in Blair's eyes. When the light turned green, Ian added, "In fact, I found the English accent very easy to acquire." 

Blair laughed slightly. This doctor made him feel so comfortable for some reason. His nerves were frayed from dealing with Jim over the past couple of weeks, and their sudden stay in the hospital wasn't doing his nervous system much good. /I guess Doctor . . . Ian . . . can sense this. Maybe that's why he's being such a good sport./ "So," Blair started again, enjoying hearing this man talk, "why England?" 

"You ask personal questions very easily." 

"I'm sorry. Am I offending you?" 

"No, not really. It's just refreshing, I suppose." Ian steered the car to the right. "My father is Japanese. He's an executive at a British-Japanese consortium. My mother was an American of Japanese descent. They met in San Francisco. I was born in England, so it means I have a multiple citizenship. Comes in handy sometimes. I lived in England until moving to the States to go to med school." 

"Why here?" 

"Needed to get out. Away from my father." 

"Oh." Blair turned to watch the sun set behind the Olympics. It had been days since he had last seen a "sun break." 

After a moment of silence, Ian asked, "So, why does English public school fascinate you so much?" 

"I'm an anthropologist. Social structures have always fascinated me." 

"Do you teach at Rainier?" 

"Yeah. I'm still working on my dissertation, though." 

"One of the reasons I went to med school. Tough exams, but no bloody dissertation. Least of all, on some subject that no one would give a damn about like whether Shakespeare had a phobia of the word, 'fie.'" Ian pulled in front of the police station. As Blair got out of the car, Ian noticed him shiver and said, "Wait a moment." He opened the door and moved to the trunk. "Here, wear this." Ian handed Blair a thick gray cable-knit sweater. 

"Man, I can't take that." 

"Sure you can. I expect I'll see you tomorrow morning?" 

"You can count on it. I feel bad enough leaving Jim overnight, but I need to get my clothes and Jim's medical journal." 

"You keep his medical journal?" 

"Long story. Thanks for the ride." Blair slipped on the sweater. "And thanks for this, too." 

"Any time. See you tomorrow." Ian watched Blair scramble through the cold air and into the station. 

* * *

"Blair!" Ryf exclaimed as he say the young man. "Look at you! How'd you manage that shiner?" 

"It's nothing." 

"Nothing? It looks like you broke some bones!" 

"It looks worse than it is. Jim hit me by mistake. He didn't see what he was doing." 

"Jeez. I knew that guy could hit, but I had no idea. So how is he?" 

"He's sedated. I came by just to tell Simon." 

Blair headed for Simon's office, when Ryf stopped him. "No, Blair. You do not want to go in there." 

"Trust him on that," Taggart added from his desk. "You certainly don't want to go in there." 

"Why? What happened?" 

"This Fed came by. Reamed Captain Banks a new hole for that whole warehouse thing. Then he went totally ballistic." 

"You're kidding." 

"No. Trust me. That is the last place you want to go." 

Blair stared at Simon's door for a few moments before saying. "Then I need to apologize, too." Blair screwed up his courage. 

"You're a braver man than I, Gunga Din," Taggart called out after him. 

Blair tapped lightly on the glass. When he didn't hear a response from Simon, he slowly opened the door and peeked inside. "Simon?" 

Simon sat at his desk, toying with something in his hand. His office looked like a disaster area -- the chairs overturned and files strewn. Blair's gut clenched in sudden fear. But when Simon looked up at him, his eyes didn't express anger so much as discomfort. Blair closed the door, then righted one of the chairs to sit down. 

"How's Jim?" Simon asked in a controlled voice. 

"He's sedated." 

"How's the black eye." 

"Throbs a little." 

"Did they give you something for it?" 

"Just told me to take some ibuprofen." 

"You have some of that back at the loft?" 

"Yeah." After a few moments, Blair finally asked. "Simon, what happened?" 

"Agent Harold Oestend happened." 

"You're kidding? He did all this?" 

"I had to have him escorted out of the building, but not before he spent way too long accusing me and my men of ruining his investigation." 

"How . . . how did we ruin it? We found his storage facilities and they were booby-trapped." 

"I know, Blair, you don't have to defend yourself to me." 

"You had him escorted out?" 

"Yeah. His superior officer just called me with an apology. Used the same old excuse that Oestend had been working too closely on the case and had let it get the better of him." 

"Man." Then Blair noticed what Simon held in his hand. It was the broken pieces of one of his black angel collectibles. "Whoa, Simon, he broke one of your angels?" 

Simon just nodded. 

"Can you fix it?" 

"I can put it back together. I can't fix it though." 

"Huh?" 

"Now every time I look at this angel, I'm going to know that it's not whole, like it was. That it's been broken. That it's been somehow changed." Simon made eye contact with Blair. "People are like that, too, you know." 

Blair focused on what he was saying. "Simon, I'm all right." 

"No, Sandburg, you're fixed. You've been put back together. I'd like to think Jim had a part in that." 

"He did." 

"I thought so. Jim guards over you, I've noticed. It bothered me at first, because I thought that was the last thing he needed to do -- watch after some fool kid. But I guess that's exactly what Jim needed. He's come out of his cave to watch over you. And Jim's mellowed out a lot more since you came along. He's become a lot more human. But you, you've changed this year. You're a lot more reserved. A lot more serious. It makes me worry that Jim might be having an adverse affect on you." 

"Simon, it's not Jim." 

"Good." Simon waited a moment before asking. "So what is it? Are you still . . . hurting because of this other guy?" 

"It hurts," Blair confessed, "but not as bad. I'm learning to live with it. I finally had to tell myself that I'm not the only person who's lost someone close. Everyone else lives on. I have to live on, too." 

Simon nodded, then put the angel down on his desk. He stood and said, "I need to get you home, I expect." 

"I'd appreciate it." 

"Appreciate nothing. If an officer saw you walking around Cascade in a designer sweater and scrubs, they'd pull you over and think you had just gotten out of a mental institution and rolled some rich guy for clothes. Then I'd have to come back here and get you out." 

* * *

As he walked around the loft, Blair couldn't focus his mind on any one thought. The intense emptiness pervading the loft haunted him. He had things he needed to say to Jim, not to mention just the simple fact that he missed him. He found himself cleaning the kitchen, and then the bathroom before realizing what he was doing. Then he began packing a bag for Jim, of essentials he thought Jim would need, even Blair's discman so that Jim could listen /when he could hear/ to his boxed set of Santana singles. 

He had already called the hospital to check on him. "Is this Blair?" the nurse had asked. She told him Jim was still asleep. "Now you get some sleep, too," the nurse said. As Blair hung up the phone, it struck him as odd that she recognized his voice, and although the voice was familiar to him, he couldn't place the face. /We really are there too often./ 

In a fit of optimism, Blair began packing the clothes Jim would wear when he would be released. But as he stood in front of Jim's closet, Blair reached out slowly to touch Jim's clothes. /In all the times that I dated Jack, and afterwards, Jim never stopped touching me./ Blair ran his fingers down the length of a flannel shirt sleeve. /He's always been so physical toward me. But, Blair, he's a sentinel \-- touch is one of his bonds with you, with his guide./ 

He sighed. 

Blair pulled the cloth to his nose, then cursed himself for not being a sentinel. /I can't smell Jim on this./ He sat down on the bed and hugged his arms to his chest. When he did this, it was Ian's sweater he felt. 

The first thing Blair had done when he got into the loft was to change into jeans, but he left the soft, warm sweater on. Now, sitting on Jim's bed, he could smell the cologne Ian wore. Without moving a muscle, Blair withdrew into his thoughts. 

/I want Jim. Last year, I fell in love with him. And I couldn't have him./ Then Blair remembered how quickly he had fallen for Jack. It had happened so fast, like Jack was a life preserver. /I ran away to Jack. Just the same way as my mother would run to a place when she had problems with a guy, I ran away to a person./ 

He closed his eyes and remembered nights with Jack. Of Jack running his hands down the length of his body, feeling his muscles strain into his own. Jack had taught him one thing -- loving another man can be just as passionate an experience as loving a woman. 

Now, there was Ian. Blair pulled the sweater to his nose again. Ian had sparked something in him today. The handsome eyes, the defined features, the thick hair. He had the aesthetics to make him noticed. But there was something else. There was a humanity to him, a charm and a charisma. And even more than that, there was a interest, an attraction, that Blair could feel coming from Ian. /Ian's attracted to me./ 

Blair stood up to flip through the shirts in Jim's closet. /Jim. Am I running away from you again?/ He pulled his hands back as if shocked. /Blair, why do you put yourself through this? Jim is straight. He loves you more than any straight guy ever has and . . . and what's more, I bet if you asked Jim to sleep with you, I'm sure he would. Not because he wanted to but because you asked him. Now, would that be worth it? . . . Blair, you have a choice -- you can stay in this unrequited love with Jim, or you can pursue Ian, who seems to be a nice guy and seems to like you a lot. So what is it? Do you take love or not?/ 

* * *

Blair arrived at the hospital at eight. As he walked past the nurses station, he recognized most of the nurses there. "Janice, Elaine, how's it going?" 

"Blair?" Janice pushed her long red hair from her face. "Why are you here?" 

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Elaine interrupted. "Detective Ellison's in room 450." Then she whispered, "He's restrained though." 

Blair sauntered into Jim's room, tossing Jim's suitcase along with his coat and back-pack on the empty bed he had occupied the night before. Looking once over his shoulder for any nurses, he pulled Jim's velcro restraints loose and dropped the guard rails down so that he could sit on the mattress. Then he took Jim's hand in his and waited. 

Jim's eyes opened an hour later, but they seemed dazed and unfocused. He reached out. "Blair?" 

Blair heard the vague croak of Jim's voice and caught his other hand. "It's okay, Jim. I'm here." 

"Blair? I can't see anything." Jim sat up, placing his right hand on Blair's flank and his left on his shoulder. "I can't see. I . . . can't see." 

"Shhh. It's okay, big guy. Can you hear me?" 

Jim nodded. 

"You can feel me, right?" 

Jim nodded again, running his hand from Blair's arm pit to his hip. Blair closed his eyes -- the motion was so erotic. He sighed slightly and Jim stopped. 

"What's happening to me, Chief?" 

"Huh? Did you say what's happening?" After Jim nodded, Blair continued. "We don't know, yet." Jim took a quick, worried breath and Blair added, "But don't worry. It's nothing more than a world-famous Jim Ellison reaction to a drug. That's all. Okay, big guy? Okay?" 

Jim nodded. Then he froze, and his eyes grew wide. 

"Jim?" 

"Blair, it's happening again," he said, shouting so that Blair could just barely hear him. 

"What?" 

"The sound." He pulled Blair tighter toward his chest. So close to his ear, Blair could hear him much better, even as Jim's voice became blocked by fright and emotion. "It's going away again. Blair, don't go away." /Don't put me back in there. It's dark, and quiet, and lonely./ 

Blair pulled Jim into a tight hug. "I'm right here." 

"It's dark in here. It's dark. Don't leave me. Don't. Blair? Blair? Where are you going?" Jim's grasp on Blair became looser. 

/He must be losing his sense of touch/ Blair thought as he pulled away. He began to push Jim back onto the bed, when Jim started fighting him. 

At that moment, Dr. Yoshito entered the room. He rushed to the other side of the bed and pushed Jim back, grabbing for his arms. 

"Hey!" Blair shouted. "Not so rough!" 

Ian secured one of Jim's hands, then said, "Blair, I would appreciate it if you would let us keep Mr. Ellison restrained until he can stay calm." After the second arm was secured, Ian looked up at Blair. He could tell Blair was angry. Smoothing his ruffled black hair, Ian added, "I'm sorry. It's for his own good." Blair didn't say anything, but only sat on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, staring down at Jim. Sighing, Ian pulled out his stethoscope. "His heart is racing." 

"He's scared," Blair snapped at him. "You would be, too. . . . I know I would." 

Ian took a tuning fork from his coat pocket and struck the edge of the bed. Moving it around Jim's face and ears, he didn't notice any reaction from the detective. Then he flashed his penlight into his eyes. Nothing. Finally, Ian stood up straight, shaking his head. 

"What?" 

"I just don't understand it. Physically, he's fine. But nothing's working." 

"He could hear this morning." 

Ian eyed Blair quickly. "He could? How do you know?" 

"We spoke to each other. And he could feel, but he couldn't see." 

"Could he smell?" 

"I don't know. I didn't think to ask." 

Ian remembered tossing Jim's file on the other bed when he had entered the room. Crossing to Blair's side of the bed, he opened the file and began reading. "The drugs he was exposed to shouldn't have had this effect." 

"Oh, here," Blair turned to grab his backpack. "Here's part of Jim's medical journal." 

He took the heavy three-ring binder from Blair. "Part of it? Blair, there's over . . . 400 pages here." 

"Yeah, well, Jim's had some sort of reaction to just about everything." 

"Why do you keep such a journal for him?" 

"Uhm . . . well, he's my partner. I have to keep an eye on him in the field." 

"In the field? You said you were an anthropologist. You said you taught at Rainier." 

"Yeah, I do. But I also work for the Cascade PD, as an official observer. I work as Jim's partner, and in return, I get to research the social structures of the department for my dissertation." 

"But you're not a cop?" 

"Well, no, not really." 

"So, why do you work with him in the field?" 

Blair remembered something Ian had said last night. He tapped the notebook with his finger and said, "There's your answer." 

Ian shook his head slowly in disbelief as he opened the notebook. "You have a bloody table of contents?" 

"Yes, I have a bloody table of contents," Blair replied in exasperation. "Do you think any of these chemicals is related to the ones Jim was exposed to?" 

Ian scanned the list. "Aspirin?" 

"We were exposed to aspirin?" 

"No, no." He looked down again, then eyed Blair with a confused expression. "Aspirin?" 

"Will you look at these things?!" 

"Fine. Here, let's look at these. Page 271." Ian flipped the pages over awkwardly before he had to finally set the heavy notebook down on the empty bed. "These over-the-counter medicines have a similar chemical structure." Ian read one page, then flipped to the second. He paused to see how many pages he had to read, flipping and flipping and flipping until finally he looked up at Blair again. "This is what you do for him?" 

"Ian, stop looking at me like I'm crazy. Yes, this is what I do for Jim. It's my job." He hooked his thumb at his partner. "And you can see why." 

* * *

[Continued in part two](lovingyou1_a.html).


	2. Chapter 2

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Loving You Less Than Life II

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer and notes can be found in part one. 

* * *

Loving You Less Than Life II -- part two  
By Kadru 

It was now six o'clock on a Sunday evening, and Ian was tired. He had spent much of the day between his many patients and reading Blair's exhaustive notes on Jim Ellison. "Part of it?" he repeated to himself, shaking his head. He had been saying this all day long. /How can anyone be so bloody anal, compulsive, obsessive . . . / The list of adjectives had trailed on all day as Ian discovered another word to describe what he thought was just too bizarre. 

As he walked by the nurses station, he saw a pretty red-haired nurse filing her nails, but he was too tired to even say anything. He walked down the long hall, dragging his feet, and it wasn't until he was two doors away from Jim's room that he heard the scuffle. 

Ian rushed into the room to discover Blair holding Jim down by the shoulders. Jim twisted violently in the bed with his hands covering his ears and his face wrenched in pain. 

"Jim," Blair said, "calm down. Tell me what you hear." 

Ian crossed to the other side of the bed and leaned in close. 

Jim's dry voice cracked, "Make it stop. Make it stop." 

"Make what stop, Mr. Ellison?" 

"The noise. Make it stop." 

"What noise, Jim?" Blair asked. "What does it sound like?" 

"Rasping." 

Ian stood up straight with a shocked look on his face. "Did he say rasping? Blair, did he say rasping?" 

"Yes. He keeps saying it over and over." 

Ian darted out of the room and down to the nurses station. "Janice?" She looked up at him. "Do me a favor." 

"Sure, doctor." She started to put her nail file away as she stood up. 

"No, no. I need that, too." When he recognized the confused expression on her face, he added, "I know, I know. This is going to sound crazy, but stand here. When I point to you, I want you to run your file across your nails again." 

"Doctor?" 

"I know, I know, but please." Ian ran back down the hall. When he looked in, Jim was panting but his hands had fallen away from his ears. 

"Is it over, Jim?" 

Jim nodded. 

Stepping back into the hall, Ian pointed at Janice. 

Janice drew the file across her nail once, and Ian could hear Blair shouting, "Jim, what is it this time? Jim, calm down!" 

Ian waved his hand to get Janice to stop. "Thank you, Janice," he shouted down to her. 

"What. Ever." Janice said as she threw her nail file across the counter. "Thank God my shift is over because I am like so out of here." 

Ian entered the room slowly this time. He stepped over to Jim's side. "Mr. Ellison, are you okay, now?" Jim nodded. "My name is Doctor Ian Yoshito. I'm a neurologist, and I'm here to help you. How is your hearing now?" 

Jim croaked out, "Okay. But there's so much." 

Ian pulled open a drawer of the bedside table and saw several cotton plugs in sterilized wrapping. As he ripped them open, he saw Jim jerk. "Can you see yet, Mr. Ellison?" At Jim's head shake, Ian added, "I'm going to put these cotton plugs in your ears. It should muffle the sound. How's that?" 

"Better." 

"Mr. Ellison, I'm going to talk to Blair for a moment, but just for a moment, okay." 

"Me?" Blair asked. Then the guide saw the angry expression in Ian's eyes, with his dark, angled eyebrows scowling. Ian forcefully pointed Blair to the door. 

"Only for a moment, Mr. Ellison. I promise, I'll bring him right back." 

Jim was a little confused. This was the first time any doctor had been so concerned about his need for Blair. He nodded, unsure of himself. 

"We'll be right back." Then Ian stormed out of the room with Blair following behind him. Not even looking to see if Blair was still with him, Ian pushed open the door to the stairwell, letting it slam against the wall, then started descending one flight. 

"Hey," Blair called after him, "Wait up. Where are we going?" After three floors separated them, Ian threw open the door and stepped into an empty hallway. "What did you do up there to make the noise stop?" 

Ian turned on him, his lab coat flailing. "I had the nurse stop filing her bloody nails." 

"Oh." Blair's expression became sheepish. 

"God damnit, Blair, why didn't you tell me Jim was hypersensitive?!" 

"He's what?" 

"Don't fuck around with me. You bloody well know what I'm talking about. He's hypersensitive. I found out this morning that he came into this hospital three years ago complaining of both his hearing and his sight, but there were no other findings. And now he can hear a nurse filing her nails almost a 100 feet away and it pains him? Now I know if you keep such notes on his chemical reactions, then surely you must know he's hypersensitive!" 

Blair turned around in frustration with his hands on his hips, before turning back to face Ian with his hand to his temple. "I --" He paused to get his thoughts in order. "Don't take this anywhere." 

"What are you asking?" 

"Don't put this down in any part of Jim's medical record." 

"How can you ask me to do such a thing? Ellison has a serious problem." 

"No! He does not have a problem! There is nothing WRONG with Jim. Yes, he is hypersensitive, but there is nothing WRONG." 

"Blair, how can you say that? Good god, man, I have a patient up there who's been exposed to a simple purgative and he's been in almost complete sensory deprivation for days." 

"Jim has a complete handle on his senses. And we do have to watch what he gets exposed to, but it's not like this sort of thing happens every day." 

"Blair, every day he gets exposed to noises like someone filing their nails." 

"I know this, Ian, but I've trained Jim to dial it down." 

"Dial it down. What is this bloody nonsense?" 

"It means Jim can reduce or increase any of his senses." 

"This is insane." Ian threw his hands up and paced. 

"It is not insane. There are historical records of members of pre-civilized tribes who exhibit the ability to sense--" 

"I don't believe this." 

"Will you listen to me?" 

"Blair, this is nonsense. You . . . you aren't using him as a test subject, are you? Is that why you've kept such copious notes?" 

"Yes, Jim is my--" 

"Blair, this is unethical--" 

"It is not unethical! I have Jim's full approval--" 

"You've convinced him to not seek treatment--" 

"Treatment? Treatment? What sort of treatment?" 

Ian answered quickly, "We can easily prescribe a treatment for Ellison to be able to live in the day to day world without--" 

"Chemical? You'd drug him? Numb him?" 

"Not precisely." 

"You know, as late at the 1800's, doctors were forcing left-handed children to write with their other hand, and for what reason, huh?" 

"Blair, this is not like that--" 

"Because they were different. And doctors didn't understand it." 

"Blair, do you realize how easily Jim can get hurt? How many of his senses are affected?" 

"All of them." 

"All of them?! Bloody hell! Blair, this is irresponsible of you! Jim could be walking around in pain, for god's sake, from . . . from . . . a paper cut, a stubbed toe. How can you do that to him?" 

"It's not like that. I wish you would just give me an ounce of respect here." 

"Respect?!" 

"Yes, damn it, respect. I've been able to help a police officer learn to use his hypersensitivity to hear better, to see better, to track and trace and capture criminals better. He -- we -- have the highest conviction rate of any unit on the force, and I'm not even a trained police officer. But what I do know, is how to be his guide." 

"Guide?" 

"Yes, guide. I'm the one who keeps Jim safe from harm. I'm the one who keeps him from zoning out." 

"Zoning out?" 

"When he focuses on one sense too much that he sort of freezes." 

"He freezes? Blair, that's a petit mal seizure." 

"No, it isn't--" 

"Blair, there are several documented cases were hypersensitivity can lead to epilepsy when left untreated." 

"Oh, yeah? How many hypersensitive children were mis-diagnosed with epilepsy because some doctor didn't know what a zone out was?" 

"This is ridiculous. I'm his doctor." 

"Well I know your patient better than you do. And I know Jim isn't going to allow you to put him on any drug program." 

"Even if it's for his own good?" 

"No, because he knows what will be best for him." They both stared at each other for a few minutes. Then Blair asked, "Ian?" 

"What?" 

"Please don't put this on his record." 

"You've got to be insane!" 

"No, I'm serious. This isn't something that should be advertised. Jim would be a target in an instant, by everyone -- the underworld, the media, the government. Please. Consider Jim's personal life. Don't turn him into a freak of nature." 

"So you're just going to do a little dissertation on him?" 

"It's a case study, and case studies can use assumed names with proper referencing. Just like a medical study. You know this already." Blair could see Ian softening. "Please, Ian. Please. Help, him, yes. Help me work with him. Suggest something maybe less invasive than drug therapy or surgery. Exercise or something. But please, please don't put this on his record." 

"I don't like this." 

"Please, Ian." 

Ian closed his eyes for a few seconds, then looked at his watch. "I promised Jim I wouldn't keep you long. Go." 

"Aren't you coming with me?" 

"Just go, Blair." 

Blair exhaled sharply. It really bothered him to see Ian so angry at something he had done. He closed his lips tight then entered the stairwell alone. 

* * *

Ellen, the middle-aged head nurse, walked through the open elevator doors and eyed the two nurses sitting behind the nurse's station counter. It was after 10 p.m., and she had to pull the night shift. "Howdy, girls. What'd I miss on vacation?" 

Jackie, a young black nurse, answered, "Ellison and Sandburg are back." 

Ellen stopped, dropping her head down. "Damn. They're the reason I went on vacation in the first place." 

"Oh my god, girlfriend, you don't know!" Jackie ran around the desk and grabbed Ellen by the hands. "It's Jim Ellison. And we are under STRICT ORDERS to keep him RESTRAINED, girlfriend!!!" 

Ellen opened her eyes wide. "Which room?!" 

"450!" 

"I'll be back." Ellen threw her coat and pocketbook down and stormed down the hall, turning sharply into the room. The room was dark except for one lamp, lit in the far corner. Ellison lay in the bed, his eyes and mouth open but not moving. Sandburg sat in a chair beside him, holding his hand and stroking it lightly. Even in the dark, she could see the dark circles under his eyes. 

"Mr. Sandburg?" she said in an stentorian voice. He turned to face her. "I won't argue with you being here past visitors' hours, but why isn't Mr. Ellison restrained?" 

"He's not hurting anyone," Blair answered in a soft voice. 

"We are under strict orders to keep him restrained." She stared down at Blair, but then noticed the tired expression in his face, troubled, but still pleading behind a huge black bruise. "Who hit you?" 

"It was an accident." 

"Is that why he's restrained?" 

"He didn't know it was me." 

A more subdued voice said, "What's wrong with him?" 

"He . . . he can't see, or hear, or feel anything." 

"Why?" 

"His senses are all knocked out. He's . . . he can't feel or see or . . ." Blair looked back at Jim, then rubbed his hand again. 

"Oh, honey, how long have you been here?" 

"Since early this morning." 

"Go home." 

"Can't. He snaps out of it every few hours and starts to panic. He'll get one sense back and he gets scared. I've been calming him down." 

Ellen touched Blair on the shoulder. "How long has he been like this?" 

"Since Friday." 

"And you've been here all this time?" 

"I was in that bed for most of it. Dr. Everett let me go yesterday." 

"Oh, kid." She rubbed his shoulder. "If you need anything, just holler." Then she leaned in, "I know you know how to do that." Ellen returned to the station. She sat down and put her face in her hands. 

Velma, an older nurse, touched her on the arm. "This one's kinda rough, ain't it?" 

"I tell ya, Velma, I wish I had a man like that to watch over me." 

"Which one? Ellison? Or Sandburg?" 

"Either one." 

Velma nodded with a knowing, closed-mouth smile. 

* * *

When Jim woke up, he could see. Sound was difficult -- there was a high pitched whine in his ears. His skin tingled. Jim eased his head off the pillow and noticed the mass of brown curls asleep on his arm. He tried to touch him, but noticed his left hand was restrained. Slowly, carefully, Jim shifted his free arm. 

Blair moaned, then suddenly shot up, grabbing his face. "Ow ow ow ow--" 

"Blair?" 

"Shh, it's all right," Blair said, groggily, still holding his face. "Just slept on the wrong side of my face." 

Jim pulled Blair's hand away and saw the black bruise. "Whoa, Chief, how'd that happen?" 

"It was just an accident, Jim. I'm not mad." 

"Mad? Did I do that?" 

Blair didn't know how to answer that, but his silence gave Jim his answer. Jim reached up to trace the bruise with his fingertip and Blair flinched. 

"Chief? I did that, didn't I? I remember hitting something. I hit you, didn't I?" 

"Jim, don't think about it. You must be able to see if you noticed this." 

"Blair, I'm sorry. You know I'd never do something like that to you." 

"Understood," Blair said, pulling his hand away. "Now, can you see?" 

"It's a little fuzzy, but I can see." 

"Your voice is better. I can understand you. And you must be able to hear okay." 

"There's a ringing in my ears." 

"What about the others?" 

"My skin tingles." 

"I brought you some things. I brought you my discman and all of your Santana CD's, for when you can hear okay." 

Jim smiled. "Thanks, Chief." 

"I've missed you." 

"Blair, we need to talk." 

"Jim Ellison wants to talk?" 

"But . . . not like this. Not until everything is working okay." 

"Okay, Jim. I promise." Blair stared down at his partner while continuing to stroke his arm. Jim looked so vulnerable, but so at ease with him, so trusting. /Jim, why you are so easy to love?/ 

Just then, Blair heard Ian's voice. "Blair? How's our patient?" 

"He's awake." 

Ian moved to the other side of the bed. "Good morning, Mr. Ellison. How are you feeling today?" 

"Foggy." 

"Your voice sounds better. Try not to over use it, though. I want you to meet someone. Mr. Ellison, Blair, this is Doctor Catherine Gould. She's a neurologist, also, but has more experience in allergic reactions than I do. I thought she might be able to use her expertise and shed some light on all this." 

Doctor Gould approached the bed. She was a small, lightly-built woman with long, brown-blond hair. "Ian, you always over-exaggerate." 

"Hardly, Catherine. Maybe I'm 'telling the truth -- but telling it slant.'" 

Jim recognized it. /I've heard that line before./ He remembered Blair had read it to him from a book a few days before the warehouse explosion, and how Jim couldn't figure out what it meant. /Blair's interpretation was even more confusing./ Suddenly, Jim felt Ian's hands on his throat, and he jerked away. 

"Sorry, Mr. Ellison. I didn't mean to startle you. Or did I hurt you?" 

"No. It's nothing." Jim looked at Blair and noticed something was bothering him, too. /Did Blair recognize it?/ 

Ian backed away from Jim, and when he did, Blair left Jim's side to come closer. He pulled Ian aside, with his hand at the small of the doctor's back instead of by the arm, a move so intimate that Jim instantly recognized it. He tried to listen in on their conversation, but Dr. Gould interrupted him. "Can you hear me, Mr. Ellison?" 

* * *

Blair pulled Ian aside and whispered, "What's going on here? You didn't do this because of last night, did you?" 

"Blair, relax. Dr. Gould knows what she's doing." 

"Did you tell her?" 

"About Jim's hypersensitivity?" Ian paused, then answered, "No." 

* * *

Ian checked on the two of them later that afternoon. Jim looked asleep, but he was continuing to talk. 

Blair said, "I switched with Irene. This is her first year, and she got stuck with the Saturday class from hell." 

"Blair, you didn't." Jim's voice was so hoarse. 

"I wanted to. Besides, it's only this once. She was more than willing to switch with me." 

"But you promised me you wouldn't take that schedule again. The last time it really stressed you out." 

"That was when I was working with you during the week, preparing for the class at night, and then teaching. Yeah, it stressed me out." 

"Blair, I know you aren't sleeping. You shouldn't push yourself like this." 

Ian cleared his throat. Blair turned to face him, but Jim's expression didn't change. "Mr. Ellison, stop talking. Your voice sounds awful again. Can you see?" 

"Yes." 

"Nod for me, Jim. Don't speak. How's your hearing?" 

"The ringing is getting louder." 

"I said to nod your head, Jim." 

"Then ask me a yes or no question," he replied sharply. 

"Oh, sorry. Does your skin still tingle?" 

Jim shook his head. 

"Doctor Gould suggested I release you tomorrow so that you can re-coup at home." He looked over to see Blair smile. "But first, I want to make sure you're making progress. I want you to rest all day, understood?" 

Jim nodded again, and settled back with a sigh. 

Ian left. 

They remained alone for a few hours in silence before Jim suddenly stiffened. Blair turned around to see Agent Harold Oestend standing in the doorway. His hair was ruffled, but his suit seemed flat and formal. 

"What do you want?" Blair's voice was too sharp, and Oestend turned to face it. 

"I . . . I came to apologize to you . . . to the both of you . . . for the comments I made." 

Blair tried to listen to Oestend's breathing rate, cursing himself again for not being a sentinel. But even to his ears, it sounded very controlled. 

Jim bucked against the restraint, his right arm flailing for Blair. His hearing was quickly disappearing, but not before he recognized Oestend's voice. And he could smell something. "Blair," he tried to croak, but his voice was fighting him, too. Finally, he grabbed Blair's arm. 

As Blair turned, he didn't notice Oestend reach into his coat pocket. 

"Jim, what is it?" 

"Curare." 

"What?" 

"Curare!" 

Just then, the door opened, and a young nurse entered. "Mr. Ellison, are you ready for your sponge bath?" 

Both Blair and Oestend turned to look at her. It was then that Blair noticed the syringe in Oestend's hand. /Curare! Jim said "curare"!/ Blair reached for the closest object he could find. His fingers gripped the pillow on the empty bed, and he whipped it at Oestend's hands. The syringe pierced the pillow and jerked from the agent's fingers. Both of them watched as the needle twirled in the air, falling toward Jim. Blair caught his breath in fear as it fell over his friend and onto the floor. 

Oestend reached for it. Blair had only seconds. Aiming his shoulder into Oestend's chest, he rammed him hard, away from Jim as both men fell into the opposite wall. The nurse dropped her basin, spilling water on them both as she ran from the room. Blair grabbed Oestend by the waist and pulled him to the floor. 

In his bed, Jim had lost all sense of sound, but he could feel the vibrations around him, could feel the struggle and smell the curare. "Blair!" With his free hand, he pulled the velcro strip free and began to sit up. 

Blair continued to struggle with Oestend, but Oestend was a trained agent. He effortlessly wrestled Blair onto his back and pinned his arms. "You worthless little punk! You fucked up my investigation! You made me lose my killer! Now I can't let go of him! I can't let go of him! He's inside me and I can't get him out! There's no excuse for you! There's no excuse!" He pulled back his fist to punch Blair, and Blair closed his eyes, gritting his teeth and preparing for the blow he knew was going to hurt like hell. 

Suddenly, he felt Oestend's full weight land hard on his chest, knocking his breath away. He opened his eyes to see Ellen, the head nurse, standing over the both of them with an empty syringe in her hand. "You okay, Blair?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine." He frantically rolled Oestend off his chest as if his body burned him. His adrenalin was spiking and he shouted, "God damn, did the cheese slide off his cracker or what?!" 

Ellen smirked. "Good thing Doctor Yoshito had me keep this sedative prepared in case Ellison lost control again." 

"Blair?" 

Blair heard Jim's hoarse call, and he quickly ran to him. As he did, he noticed the syringe on the floor. Blair quickly placed his hand on Jim's chest for him to recognize his pulse. Jim stopped, then grabbed Blair's arm. Jim continued to hold on as Blair tried to pull free, forcing him to pat Jim on the chest a few times. Then carefully, gently, Blair pinched the end of the syringe with his fingertips. 

"What is that?" Ellen asked. 

"Jim thinks it's curare." 

"Curare? How would he know such a thing?" 

"Trust me. He has a nose for it. Is there some place we can put this until the police arrive?" Ellen carefully took it from his hands, and Blair turned back to Jim. "Can you hear me, Jim? Can you?" When he got no response, Blair wrote on Jim's chest with his fingers, O K. 

"Is it Oestend?" 

Blair instantly wrote on his chest again -- Y E S. 

Jim tried to say, "You sure you're okay?" but his throat was so sore. 

I M O K 

Jim nodded, catching his breath. Once he regained his composure, Jim reached for Blair's hand again and wrote -- W A T E R 

As Blair turned to lift the pitcher of water at Jim's bedside, he heard Jim chuckle. Blair looked at him confused and heard Jim's dry voice, "Pretty good Helen Keller impersonation, huh?" 

Blair wrote on his forehead -- H A H A. 

Jim sat up and pulled Blair into a tight hug. "Are you sure everything's okay?" 

H E S K N O C K E D O U T, Blair drew on his back. 

"Good. I was so afraid you were hurt." 

I L O V E Y O U. 

Jim hugged him tighter, rubbing his open hands over Blair's back as the young man pressed his forehead against the sentinel's neck. 

* * *

Ian heard the news after the police had carried Oestend away. He rushed back to the hospital. "Blair? Are you okay?" 

Blair was standing at Jim's bedside, feeding him soup with a spoon as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He nodded but didn't say anything. 

"What happened?" 

"One of the federal agents we were working with on a case came in here and lost it." 

"Lost what? 

"Went nuts. Dropped his cards. Whatever you want to call it. He'd been tracking a serial killer who used nerve poisons, so I guess he came in here to get revenge or something. Simon said he'd been focusing on trying to think like the killer that he couldn't keep the two apart. He had a syringe of curare." 

"Curare? They told you it was curare?" 

"No. Jim recognized the smell." 

"Oh, I guess that explains it." 

"Explains what?" Blair set down the soup bowl. Ian didn't seem to notice that Jim could hear as well. 

"I heard from Dr. Gould. She said a man had walked in with a dose of succinylcholine. It's very similar to curare. We use it to stop a patient's lungs when putting him on a respirator." He came closer. "You sure you're all right?" 

"I'm fine." Then Blair added in a slightly accusatory tone. "So is Jim." 

Blair could tell he had embarrassed Ian as the doctor grew silent, moving to the other side of the bed to examine Jim. "Jim, can you hear?" 

Ellison nodded. 

"What about sight? Can you see?" 

"A little." 

"Feeling?" Again, Jim nodded. 

"Good. It looks like you're having longer and longer periods where your senses are working. I'll have Dr. Gould come back and check on you one more time tomorrow morning, and then I'll release you. Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"He needs to have someone stay with him until all of his senses are back to normal. Can you do that?" 

"I'm not leaving his side." 

Jim felt a safe warmth rise in his chest, and he couldn't resist a smile. 

As Ian started to leave, he asked, "Blair, can I talk to you for a moment?" 

"Sure." Blair followed Ian down the hall and into an empty room. "What's up?" 

"I . . ." 

"What?" 

"I can't believe I'm this nervous. Blair, I . . . want to apologize for some of the things I said about how you've been . . . working with Jim." 

"That's okay." 

"I want to try and make it up to you. Can I . . . will you . . . have dinner with me?" 

Blair grinned, and his blue eyes flashed. "Why, doctor, isn't it unethical to ask your patients out?" 

"No, I--" Ian became flustered and his words began to crumble, "You're not my patient -- I'm Jim's -- and you're going home tomorrow and we can wait if you like until after--" 

Blair placed his open palm on the back of Ian's hand. "Relax. I'd love to." 

Ian's face lit up. "Really? I'll . . . I can call you, maybe Thursday? We could go out this Friday . . . or something." 

"You know where to reach me. I'll be with Jim all week." 

As they both smiled with silly grins, neither of them realized that Jim could hear their conversation, and that he was getting very nervous. 

* * *

Dr. Gould came by at 8 a.m. "Good morning, Mr. Ellison." She waited a moment, as if speaking was difficult for her. "Where's your friend?" 

"I made him go eat something for breakfast." 

"How are you this morning?" 

"Closer to normal than yesterday." 

"Describe the symptoms." 

Jim liked Dr. Gould better than Ian. He could recognize her stiff professional manner -- it sound like every other doctor he had ever known. Dr. Yoshito's charismatic charm seemed out of place to him. While Dr. Gould continued to examine him, Jim asked, "What do you know of Dr. Yoshito?" 

Dr. Gould eyed him with a strange look. "What do you mean?" 

"What's he like?" 

"Like? I . . . I don't know how to answer that." 

"Don't take it the wrong way. He's unlike any other doctor I've met." 

Dr. Gould watched Ellison for a few minutes, then answered. "He's a very good neurologist. He's accompanied me to several conferences up and down the West Coast." 

"The West Coast? Any places in particular?" 

"He travels often." 

"You neurologists must make good money to be able to fly down the coast all the time." 

Dr. Gould released a tight smile. "Ian comes from money. His family owns a lot of industrial property." 

"Industrial?" 

"Yes." She gave a short, forced laugh. "Last year he tried to sell me a warehouse here on the waterfront." 

Jim sat up in bed. 

* * *

Once Dr. Gould left, Jim reached for the phone. 

"Captain Banks." 

"Simon? It's Jim." 

"Jim, what are you doing calling me?" 

"Listen, Simon, I don't have time. I expect Blair back any minute." 

"What's going on?" 

"How's the Weird Em case?" 

"So far, no leads. The warehouse is owned by a holding company by the name of Sosherosoc. Their lawyers say they've been renting the property to a Lowell James." 

"Lowell. Why does that name sound familiar?" 

"Because one of the victims didn't have an Emily Dickinson poem carved on his chest. He had one by Amy Lowell." 

"Have they found anything else out?" 

"This Lowell James is a fictitious person. The holding company has been receiving payment through a lockbox in San Francisco. The payments have been by money order." 

"Simon, I want to you check out Doctor Ian Yoshito." 

"Your doctor? Why?" 

"I just found out that he owns a warehouse on the waterfront. I thought that was too much of a coincidence, a neurologist owning a waterfront warehouse? And, he spends a great deal of time up and down the West Coast. And to top it all off, I heard him quote Emily Dickinson the other day." 

"Since when can Jim Ellison recognize poetry?" 

"Give me a break, Simon. Blair's been reading it to me." 

"How charming." 

"Simon, this is serious." 

"It's a long shot, Jim." 

"Simon, I heard him ask Blair out for dinner, for this Friday." 

Simon paused. "I'll get right on it." 

* * *

That Friday afternoon, Simon came over to pick up Jim. Blair had been keeping watch over Jim at the loft, but he had asked Simon to stay with Jim that Friday so that he could go out to dinner with Ian. Neither Simon nor Jim had told Blair that Ian was being investigated. 

"Hey," Blair stopped them as they were both leaving. "Where do you think you're going?" 

"I'm going to the station for a little while, and then Simon and I are going out." 

"Jim, you just got out of the hospital." 

"I'm fine." 

"You couldn't hear this morning." 

"I can hear now. Come on, Simon." 

"And Simon, I can't believe you're going to allow this." 

"I'll take good care of him, Blair." 

"Fine." Then Blair added as both men walked out. "Just make sure he doesn't drink tonight!" 

"Yes, Mother!" Jim shouted back. 

Once outside the door, Simon said to Jim, "You know, he's right. I shouldn't be doing this." 

"Simon, I told you. I want to be there when they bring Dr. Yoshito in." 

* * *

Ian sat behind a table in a featureless room, featureless except for the mirrored wall which Ian assumed was one-sided. He had been dragged from the hospital earlier that afternoon. Two police officers stood behind him. The door opened, and two agents entered, an attractive young man with short brown hair, and a short, round woman with red hair framing a serious face. "Dr. Ian Yoshito?" the man asked. 

"Yes?" 

"My name is Special Agent Mulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigations." 

"Is this some kind of joke?" 

Dale closed his eyes and tried to ignore the comment. "This is my partner, Special Agent Moira Kennedy. Have you been advised of your rights?" 

"Yes. No one has explained why I'm here." 

"We'd like to ask you a few questions. Have you been advised of your right to have a lawyer present?" 

"Let's hear your questions, first. The ones I don't answer today, I'll answer at a later date with a lawyer present." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Agent Mulder, as far as I know, I haven't committed any crimes." 

"Very well." Mulder handed him a piece of paper with several lines of poetry typed on it. "Do you recognize these?" 

Ian scanned it, then asked, "What is this, Final Jeopardy?" 

"Then you do recognize them?" 

"I recognize some of them." 

"Which ones don't you recognize?" 

Ian pointed to one. Mulder carried it back to Kennedy, then took a folder from her. He showed Ian a photo. "Do you recognize this woman?" Ian shook his head. Then Mulder handed him a second photo, this one of a young man. Again, Ian shook his head. When Mulder handed him the third photo, of an older man, Ian drew back in shock. "You know him?" 

"That's Dr. Len Bernard. He . . . he was killed in San Francisco while we were at a conference together. . . . Oh, my god, you think I did it?!" 

"Did you?" 

"No!" 

"What were you doing that night?" 

"I don't know! I . . . I don't even know what night it happened on! I only heard about it when I got back. I . . . I don't even know what happened to him! All I heard was that it was foul play!" 

Mulder turned away and looked at Kennedy. She approached Ian. "Do you recognize any of these others?" Ian looked at the other photos. He was now visibly shaken, but he returned them to Kennedy and said meekly, "No." 

"Dr. Yoshito, these people were killed while you were attending the quarterly meetings of the West Coast Neurology Conference. Nancy Jenkins, San Diego, January, 1997. David Griffith, Los Angeles, April, 97. William Chastain, Santa Barbara, July, 97. Dr. Leonard Bernard, October, 97. Janine Dawes, Portland. Then the killings started happening sooner. Kyle Phillips, Olympia. Twyla Jones, Tacoma. Eric Folsom, Seattle. With the exceptions of those within driving distance of Cascade, all of them were killed while you were attending the quarterly sessions." 

Ian covered his face with his hands. Kennedy watched him intently with one eyebrow raised. "I didn't do this," Ian finally said pitifully. 

"Can you establish an alibi?" 

"I don't know. I don't remember. That was so long ago." Ian caught his breath. "And why me? There are over 200 members of the West Coast Neurology Association." 

"There is also a particular piece of property, here in Cascade, which we found out that you once owned. On the waterfront? A warehouse?" 

"But I sold that, almost two years ago." 

"Moira?" The agent turned around. "Can I see you, outside?" Dale asked. 

* * *

Simon and Jim remained outside the room, watching through the one-way mirror and listening over the speakers. "Could you hear anything?" Simon asked. 

Jim shook his head in frustration. "I could hear their voices, but I couldn't hear his heartbeat. I couldn't tell if he was lying or not." 

Just then, Mulder and Kennedy exited the room. "Moira, he didn't do it." 

"What?" Jim exclaimed 

Both Kennedy and Mulder stared at Jim. Moira eyed him for a second and then said to Dale. "Good question." 

"He didn't do it." 

"Dale, how do you know? He's a neurologist who we can place at the scene during the murders in California and Oregon, and who is within driving distance of the others. And he has connections to the one piece of evidence outside of the murders that we have of this killer -- he once owned the property." 

"Yes, but Moira, the only reaction we got from him was from the doctor he was already associated with. He didn't even know why we were showing him the pictures of the victims until we got to that one. He doesn't recognize the Amy Lowell quote. He sold the property before the murders even began. And, what's the first thing we learn in detective work? Always go for the guy with the concrete alibi. This guy doesn't even have one." 

"Dale, we can place him at the scene and he fits the profile. A highly intelligent, cultured man with a background in neurology." 

"I don't think he's our man, Moira. He doesn't have motive. He's visibly shaken, but for all the wrong reasons. It just doesn't feel right." 

"I don't agree with you, Dale." 

"We don't really have the evidence to hold him. It's all circumstantial." 

Kennedy shook her head. She knew Dale was right. After a few moments of standing in silence, she said, "We _will_ keep him under surveillance," then walked into the examination room. 

Jim protested, "You can't let him go." 

"He's not our man." 

"How can you be so blind?" Jim sat down in the chair and began rubbing his temples. 

As Ian walked by, he noticed Jim sitting with his head down in his hands. "Jim? Jim Ellison?" Jim looked up at him with a tired expression. "You should be at home." 

When Ian touched his shoulder, Jim shook him off. "Don't touch me." 

Ian straightened his shoulders, visibly hurt. He turned to leave, and as he did, Dale called out to him, "Hey, Dr. Yoshito? . . . When our files came back, several years were listed as classified." 

"Classified?" Jim leapt to his feet. 

Ian returned to look Mulder in the eye. "You know I can't talk about that. Why even bring it up?" 

"Some of us have all the secrets," Mulder answered. 

Ian looked past Mulder and eyed Jim one last time before leaving. 

* * *

When Jim entered the loft, he wasn't expecting Blair to be there, but he was certain glad to see him still at home. "Chief, what are you doing here?" 

"Don't bother, Jim," he said in an angry tone. "Ian's already called me. And he _explained_ why he would be late." Blair looked over at Simon. "Simon." 

"Sandburg." Simon slipped away into the kitchen. 

"Are you still going out with him?" 

"Yes, Jim, I'm still going out with him." 

"No, Chief, please--" 

"Jim, I don't want to discuss this with you." 

"Blair, we have to talk." 

"Talk? Yeah, I'll talk, and this time you can just shut up and listen! It was one thing to get pissed at me for dating Debra and for being such a shit about that. It is something altogether to arrest a guy just for asking me out." 

"It's not like that--" 

"How fucking obsessive can you get?" 

"Blair, we can place him at the scene of the crime! He doesn't have an alibi! He has the know-how to commit these crimes! Blair, please, I'm begging you. Please, don't go out with him." 

"Don't even ask me that." 

"Blair, please, I'll get on my hands and knees if you want me to. Please don't do this. I don't feel safe about this." 

"Well, I do." 

"Blair, please, trust me." 

"Jim, why don't you trust me, huh? I think I'm a pretty good judge of character. Why won't you trust me?" 

"Judge of character? Did you know that part of his past is classified?" 

"Classified?" 

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Jim tried to ignore it, and this only made Blair angrier. He opened it and saw Ian standing there, still a little shaken and very sullen. Ian made eye contact with Jim and bristled. "Blair . . . . Blair, can I wait for you downstairs?" 

"Sure, Ian, I'll be right down." 

Jim rubbed his face with his hands. The stress of this afternoon was making his vision blur. He could tell Blair wasn't going to budge. He was already dressed in a suit, with his long, curly hair pulled back in a tight pony tail. "Blair, if you're going to go out, will you please promise me a few things." 

"Why?" 

"Because you're my best friend, and I need to know that you'll be safe." 

Blair rolled his eyes. "What are they?" 

"Don't let him take you take you off the direct path between here and the restaurant." 

"Jim--" 

"And know that he's under surveillance. If you get scared, just stand back from him. Get into the open so that the feds can see you. Please." 

"Fine, Jim. I will." 

Jim watched him go. Simon came over to hand Jim a beer. "I don't like this, Simon." 

"I know, Jim, but that guy is under surveillance, and Sandburg has a really cool head on his shoulders when things get hairy." 

"That doesn't help." Jim took a swallow from his beer. "Look, Simon, you don't have to stay here. My eyesight's starting to go. I think I'm just going to lie down for the rest of the night." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah. Go. Clear out of here." 

* * *

Ian looked over his shoulder to begin backing the car out of his parking space, when he noticed the silver Ford Taurus with two men inside. He sighed, then turned back to face the front, his eyes unfocused. Slowly, he placed his forehead on the steering wheel and sighed heavily. 

Blair turned to see that he had spotted and recognized the agents. 

"Blair, I'm sorry." 

"You don't have to say that, Ian." 

"This is too awkward. If you don't want to go out with me tonight, I understand." 

"I'm okay." 

"This is so hard. I didn't do anything. And the way they talked to me, it was as if they had already judged me guilty. I didn't know what to say. I don't know what to do. I don't even begin to know how to prove to them I didn't do those things." 

"Ian, it's okay. I know you didn't do them." 

"And it's so hard to focus on tonight and try and be funny and . . . and I want you to like me." 

"Hey," Blair rubbed Ian's shoulders. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't like you." 

After a few moments of silence, Ian sat up and began to back out of the parking space again. "Here goes. Maybe tonight will make up for the day I've had." As they drove to the restaurant, Ian signaled for a right turn. 

"Hey, I thought we were going to Garbo's." 

"We are. I thought we'd take the scenic route, to sort of get our minds back in order. I like this route. You can see the city and the Olympics." 

"Oh. Okay." 

"When I got home, one of my neighbors said the sunset was spectacular. I just wish I had seen it." 

"I saw it," Blair smiled. "The light split apart into these rays, and the sky was a soft pink color." 

"Like that poem, I guess." 

"Poem?" 

"There's a certain slant of light, winter afternoons?" 

Blair felt suddenly unsure, then forced the thought from his mind with a nervous laugh. 

* * *

[Concluded in part three](lovingyou1_b.html).


	3. Chapter 3

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Loving You Less Than Life II

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer and notes can be found in part one. 

* * *

Loving You Less Than Life II -- part three  
By Kadru 

At dinner, the conversation was forced small talk, and it was growing apparent to the both of them that neither wanted to be there. 

The salad was served, and Blair stared at it. /One of the victims was drugged using salad dressing./ He looked up at Ian, who just watched him calmly. 

"What? Is it not what you ordered?" 

"Oh, no." Blair picked up his fork, speared a chunk of lettuce, yet he couldn't raise it to his mouth. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing. It's nothing." Blair slowly put the lettuce in his mouth, then waited a second before he began to chew. 

* * *

Jim's vision became completely clouded about thirty minutes after Simon left. Carefully, and not before he skinned his knee on the stairs, Jim climbed to his bedroom to lie down. /Might as well. I've got nothing else to do./ Feeling sorry for himself, he tried to doze off, listening to the wind. As his vision dissipated, his hearing grew more precise. 

Lying on his back, Jim stared upward, not really seeing the ceiling or the dim shadows cast by the street lights. /So, Jim, you just let him go out there. With Ian. With a cold-blooded killer. You should have fought harder for it. Blair might not come back tonight./ Lost in his thoughts, it was a few seconds before a metallic clicking sound registered in his ears. 

Jim sat up in bed, listening. Then he recognized the sounds -- they were the tumblers in his locks being picked. Taking in a deep breath, Jim caught a second sense -- the smell of something chemical. The same smell he had registered in the warehouse. The same smell Forensics had on record. Jim squeezed the sheets in his fist as it all came to him -- he was alone, and he was blind, and the first lock had just been picked. 

The killer began with the second lock. 

Jim ran from the bed, tripping over the covers once. With his arms outstretched, he raced for the opposite wall, scrambling his open hands across the bricks, frantically searching until the cold metal came in contact with his fingertips. /The fuse box./ He yanked open the fuse cover and began probing for the largest switch. Once he found it, Jim pulled it free. 

A heavy silence descended over the loft as every electrical appliance came to a stop -- the steady drum of the refrigerator, the electric hum of the stereo, vcr, and all the electric clocks. /Now we're on even turf,/ Jim thought just as the second lock fell and the door opened. Jim eased back to the bed, opened the nightstand, and took out his gun. 

The killer's mind buzzed as cold eyes searched the darkness. A hand felt for the light switch, and when nothing happened, the killer smiled. /Power's out. Must be blind. Must have heard me pick the lock. Very good. He can hear. He cannot see./ Weird Em scanned the darkness again. /I shall wait for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. There should be enough light coming in from the street for my needs./ As the killer waited, a chant resounded inside. /I heard a fly buzz, when I died. Appropriate for a blind, deaf cop. I heard a fly buzz, when I died. Blind deaf cop. I heard a fly buzz./ 

* * *

Blair picked at his pasta alfredo. 

Ian, now completely defeated, just stared at him with one hand motionlessly holding his fork, his elbow on the table and chin resting on his knuckles. "You aren't as bloody sure as you said you were." 

"Ian." Blair dropped his fork and rolled his head back. "Ian, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry." 

Ian rolled his eyes. "I knew we shouldn't have gone out tonight." 

"No, we are going to get through this. Just help me talk through it." 

"Fine. I guess you need me to prove my innocence like everyone else." 

"No, not proof. Just reassurance." 

"Same difference. What do you want to know?" 

Blair drew in his breath to take in courage. 

* * *

Jim could hear heartbeats. He could hear them distinctly, coming from downstairs and to the left. He remained motionless, kneeling down at the corner of the railing near the top of the stairs. 

By now, the killer could distinguish Jim's profile in the dim orange light. /I heard a fly buzz, my disabled cop. You are certainly mine. A poem would fit nicely on that heavy chest. It's so easy, isn't it, to be outside, among people, when you look like that? Won't help you now./ Still, the killer could tell that Jim pointed his gun toward the doorway. /He's got his gun pointed in my general direction./ Slowly, as quietly as possible, the killer lifted up a foot to reach for a shoe. Once it had slipped off, Weird Em then tossed it to the other side of the room. 

Jim heard the shoe strike the opposite wall. Shifting effortlessly, he aimed his gun at the noise. 

/Ah, you really *can* hear./ Weird Em then slipped off the other shoe and stepped noiselessly toward Jim on stocking feet. 

Jim didn't move a muscle, but he could still hear the heartbeat. Using what Blair had taught him, he focused on the precise sound and the growing smell of the toxins. 

Wearing gloves, Weird Em held a thin, long metal pole which was sharpened on one end. Taking a cloth from a coat pocket, the killer wiped it over the point, then approached. /I just have to scrape his skin./ Weird Em came closer and closer, nearing the stairs. 

In his mind, Jim imagined what the apartment must look like. He could hear Blair's voice, saying, 'Visualize it, Jim. Visualize it.' 

Weird Em took one step on the stairs and stopped. Jim moved slowly, and the gun shifted toward the killer. 

/I have only ten more feet, my friend,/ the thoughts buzzed in Weird Em's mind. /Ten, now nine./ 

The spark flashed in Jim's mind. /There!/ 

And Weird Em almost gasped as the tight, white star burst before the bullet sank in her breast. Her knees buckled and she collapsed, falling backwards down the stairs. 

Jim listened as he heard the killer's heartbeat grow fainter and fainter, then finally stop, the coppery smell of blood filling the room. 

* * *

"Why is part of your life classified?" Blair asked. 

Ian's eyes narrowed. "Did Jim put you up to this? Bloody hell! Is that the only reason you agreed to still have dinner with me?" 

"No. In fact, I told both Jim and Simon they were wrong." 

"Well, apparently you aren't so sure now." 

"I'm sorry, Ian, but this guy is pretty scary. He carves Emily Dickinson poetry on people's chests. *You* can quote Emily Dickinson poetry--" 

"So can a lot of people." 

"And the killer uses nerve toxins to paralyze his victims, and you know these drugs." 

Ian exhaled an angry sigh while rolling his eyes. 

"You used to own the warehouse where the drugs were kept." 

"Blair, I sold it! A long time ago!" 

"And then there's the alibi." 

"All right, I'll admit I don't have an alibi. I wasn't expecting that, and I don't have a defense for it, but Blair, there are countless other neurologists who attend these functions. I mean, why don't you suspect Doctor Gould? She's a neurologist--" 

"Women are rarely found to be violent serial killers." 

"I'm sure we can name some notable exceptions. She knows Emily Dickinson better than I do. She's from Amherst, for god's sake. She grew up right next to Emily Dickinson's house. And she has a specialty in neurological drugs." 

"Ian, that just doesn't--" 

"And I sold the waterfront property to her uncle. What do you think Sosherosoc stands for? It's not Japanese. It's the 'Soul Selects Her Own Society.'" 

Blair became very silent. After a while, he whispered, "Oh my God. It is Dr. Gould." 

"No, it's not Dr. Gould. I'm just saying that you're looking at the coincidences and not the people." 

"I need to use the phone. I've got to call Jim." Blair bolted from the table. 

Ian placed his hands over his face and shook his head. The waiter approached, pointed at their untouched plates and asked, "Is everything satisfactory?" 

"Check, please." 

As he signed the bill, Blair came running back. "Ian? Ian, I'm so sorry to do this, but we have to go." 

He flung the pen down on the table. "I just paid." 

"Ian, I'm really sorry. But there's no answer at the loft." 

"And?" 

"Ian, we have an answering machine. It didn't even pick up. Something's wrong." 

* * *

Blair didn't wait for Ian to come to a complete stop before jumping out of the moving car. He had already started to panic when he noticed the blue and red flashing lights of the police and ambulance. He darted past the yellow police tape before anyone could stop him. Ian parked the car, and as he tried to follow Blair inside, an officer stopped him. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a crime scene." 

"But I'm Jim Ellison's physician." 

The officer thought for a while, then said, "Go ahead." 

Just as Ian entered the loft, he saw the EMT's begin to zip up a body bag. His dark eyes were relentlessly drawn to the sight of Dr. Catherine Gould. She had her brown-blond hair pulled back in a tight matronly bun, and underneath her dark jacket, she wore a lacy white dress. A dark red circle bloodied her chest. "Bloody hell! That's Dr. Gould!" 

Mulder leaned over to Kennedy. "Well, Moira, I think that's the most identified body we've ever had." 

Kennedy ignored her partner. "Dr. Yoshito, you shouldn't be here." 

"What happened?" 

Blair came forward, pulling Ian toward the others who sat at the sofa. "I was right. Dr. Gould was Weird Em, just like I said. Come here, we need you to look at Jim." 

Jim stared blankly forward. Ian touched his shoulder, and Jim pulled back, startled. But Ian wasn't in the mood to be friendly. "What are your symptoms, Mr. Ellison?" 

"I can't see." 

"Can you hear?" 

"Yes." 

"Any other senses missing?" 

"No." 

"You're probably just tired then. If you don't wake up tomorrow with your sight, then call me." He then walked away. 

Blair followed after him. "That was cold." 

"I have every bloody right to be cold. Has anyone tried to tell me what's going on here? Has anyone even offered me a BLOODY APOLOGY?!" 

After a moment of silence, Ian started to leave again, when Dale stopped him. "Dr. Yoshito?" 

"Yes." 

"If it helps, we discovered in Dr. Gould's car a very detailed journal that she had been keeping of your activities. She was apparently trying to set you up for these killings." 

"Why?" 

"That's what I wanted to ask you. Any reason she would want to do that?" 

"No. I always thought she was my friend." 

"Would it have anything to do with those *classified* years of your life?" 

Both men stared at each other. Ian leaned in close and whispered, "You're a pathetic excuse for an agent. You'll never compare to the one on television. Why do you even try?" He walked around the stunned agent and left. 

"Ian!" Blair called out. "Wait." Ian stopped for him only when he was outside. "Ian, I'm sorry." 

"Blair, I'm too upset right now." 

"I know. I know. But I have to -- I need to make this up to you. Can I call you tomorrow? Please? Can we try this again? Please?" 

Ian thought about it. "Fine, call me tomorrow." 

* * *

The next week, Blair became more and more excited as Friday approached. He and Ian had decided to give it a full week before trying again. Jim's hypersenses had returned, and he was back on the force full time. Both sentinel and guide seemed to be back to normal, but underneath, Jim was still focusing on when to sit down and really talk with Blair. He was counting on Friday night, but it was becoming increasing clear that Blair was going to insist on taking Ian out to dinner again. 

The FBI had wrapped up their case on Weird Em. The search of Dr. Gould's condo turned up a massive diary of angry poems directed at her crippling shyness, along with vituperative diatribes against men and women, and especially Ian, who easily shined in social settings. It was summized that Dr. Gould chose particularly extroverted victims, used the nerve toxins to paralyze them to prevent the chance of a struggle which her petite size might not win. Her obsession with New England poets had apparently begun in childhood, as she increasingly identified with Emily Dickinson's need for seclusion. As she grew older, her frustrations gave way to anger, then to the urge for vengeance. As this explanation unfolded, everyone knew it was guesswork, and that they might never know what causes came to create Weird Em. 

Agent Harold Oestend's face remained completely motionless in the psychiatric ward as Dale Mulder explained to him their findings. He seemed to be counting heartbeats. When Dale saw no response, he gave up, complaining as he stormed out of the room, "That does it. I quit." 

Moira Kennedy followed behind, biting at her fingernails. "Yeah, right." 

But for Blair and Ian's second attempt at a date, Ian suggested dinner at his home. 

When the doctor opened the door to his high-rise apartment, Blair was a little taken aback. Ian wore a tight pair of faded blue jeans that fit the curves of his legs like a lover's whisper -- soft and intimate, holding no secrets. With that he wore a starched white button-down shirt with an open neck. His sleeves were folded to just below his elbows. And dangling from his left ear -- three silver hoops and a small silver cross. 

"Wow." 

Ian smiled his now trademark subtle grin. "What? Don't I dress down nicely?" 

"And how." 

"Come in, Blair," he said, his grin getting bigger. "I try hard to hold a candle to you. Here, let me take your coat. There's a fire over there if you need to warm up." 

On the CD player, Blair recognized the sexy rhythms of Nina Simone. "You like Nina Simone?" 

"What, you were expecting kabuki?" 

As Blair entered the apartment, he realized that he was now way out of his league. For a moment, it made him very uncomfortable. /Blair, it's not right to judge a man based on his finances. Stop it./ A huge adobe style fireplace defined a corner of the living room, while around it, large picture windows looked out over Cascade and Puget Sound. Blair stepped down into the sitting area, a circular space surrounded by a round, plush suede sofa. He looked into the kitchen and saw Ian standing there, admiring Blair for a few moments, before focusing on dinner. 

Hyperactive as usual, Blair couldn't sit in one room while there was another person he could be with. He bounded into the kitchen to watch Ian cook. "What are we having?" 

"Sushi," Ian answered. "What else?" 

"You're a sushi chef, too?" 

"My mom taught me. The rest I learned in cooking school." 

"Okay, I'm listening." 

"To what?" 

"For starters, the earrings?" 

Ian chuckled slightly as he sliced paper-thin sections of smoked salmon. "I've had a wild youth." 

"You're not that much older than me." 

"Probably not that much wilder than you, also." 

"Okay. Deal. I'll tell you something about my wild youth if you'll tell me about yours." 

"I think that's fair." Ian opened the refrigerator and handed Blair a Kirin. 

"I'm waiting." 

"Don't then," Ian teased. "Tell me something about yourself." 

"Oh, I don't think that's hardly fair. You first." 

"Oh, certainly not before a guest." 

"Ian, we're starting to sound like the Warner Brother's gophers." 

"You are so correct. I insist you stop this immediately," he teased. 

"You are like so incorrigible." 

"Now that," Ian admitted, "is something I've heard all my life." Just then a really rhythmic song came on, and Ian could no longer resist the music. He dropped the knife, then grabbed his beer and began to sway to the melody. "Tell him that you're lonely," he sang. "Tell him that you're cold. Tell him that you need him there to satisfy your soul. If he likes to dance now," he nodded to Blair with a wicked smile, "tell ya what to do." Blair nearly choked on his beer. Ian broke into a laugh, then composed himself again. "When you like a fella. Try to treat him right." His hips swayed. "Give him your attention day and night. When he starts to smiling, and he's got you uptight. Shower him with kisses day and night." 

The song ended. Ian winked at him, then returned to counter to begin making the California rolls. 

Blair by this time was laughing out loud, uncontrollably. Ian turned with a piece of salmon in his hand, popped it into Blair's mouth, and while Blair was silently chewing, said, "You have the most adorable laugh of any man I've ever met." 

"Seduction will get you nowhere." 

"Oh really?" 

"Start with the earrings." 

"Fine. I got them in London." 

"Not very Cambridge." 

"No, I should say not. I lived in London for a few years, between Cambridge and Harvard." 

"Harvard?" Blair couldn't help but feel it, the old academic insecurities. He would never be able to get into Harvard, even if his sentinel dissertation made him famous. 

"It's where I got my MD. Anyway, when I was in London, I had a fetish for East End boys. Working class punks. Had a mohawk then." 

"Did not." 

"Red. Like the rising sun." 

"You are so putting me on." 

Ian turned to smile at him again. 

/Damn him,/ Blair thought as he drank from his beer. /I can't tell if he's lying or not./ 

"It was fun. And I tell you Blair, if I could give my right arm, I'd go back and do it all over again. Only harder." 

"They didn't give you a hard time for being Japanese? And rich? And gay?" 

"At first." Ian finished the California rolls and started on the cucumber rolls. "Do you like wasabe?" 

"A lot of it." 

"Good. We sort of had our own territory, the gay punks. Wasn't too bad. We had our run ins, but it was all right. I lived. Had more trouble with the law." Ian set down the knife and looked up at the cabinets. "My Cambridge friends accused me of slumming." 

"Is that why you asked me to dinner?" 

Ian eyed him with a protective glare. "No, my days of slumming are long over." He waited until he saw Blair's confidence return, then continued. "Still, there was this one guy. His name was William." He closed his eyes and smiled. "He had spiky black hair, but he dyed the tips blond. He was somehow or another related to Maggie Thatcher, and he hated her. Then he found me, a cultured Japanese queer with a red mohawk. Perfect rebellion for both of us. We lived in absolute squalor and loved every minute of it." 

"What's William doing now?" 

Ian finished the cucumber rolls and started moving trays of seafood into the dining room. "He's an investment banker for Lloyds." 

Blair finished his beer. "Here, let me help you." As he set the table he suddenly stopped. /This feels so . . . comfortable./ 

"What? What's wrong?" Ian asked. 

"Nothing. It's nothing." 

"Very well. Now, my turn. . . . hmmm. . . . I know. Tell me about your first?" 

"First what?" 

"You know. First guy?" 

"Let's don't go there." 

"Oh, I see." Ian returned with a salad. "Backing out on the game?" 

Blair touched Ian's hand to stop him from returning to the kitchen. "Jack McClairy was my first, and he was shot and killed nine months ago." 

Ian's face changed. He brushed Blair's hair behind his ears, and while his fingers were behind the corner of his jaw, whispered, "I'm deeply sorry. Had I known, I would never have been so flippant." He gave a soft smile, hoping it would bring another smile to Blair's face. When Blair closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against Ian's palm like a cat, Ian added, "I withdraw the question. Next one. The last time you were in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, how many times did people offer you their beads if you showed them your penis?" 

Blair blurted out a laugh. 

"There we go," Ian said with a wink. "That's the Blair I like." He left Blair to get more beer from the refrigerator. 

"Hey," Blair called out. "Why are you so sure I've even been to Mardi Gras?" 

"What self-respecting educated drifter who can recognize Nina Simone wouldn't spend at least one Mardi Gras in New Orleans?" When he returned, Ian added, "Besides, I know as sexy as you are that someone had to ask. So," he returned to the kitchen for the soy sauce and wasabe, "how many beads did you get for showing off that one?" 

Blair ambled into the kitchen, picked up the bowl of pickled ginger and answered, "I lost count." 

"I thought so." Ian pulled out a chair for his guest. "Your turn." 

Blair was glad sushi was served cold, because he and Ian spoke non-stop during the meal. /If only Jim and I could talk like this./ Later, they drifted to the fireplace to lounge on the curved sofa that edged the depression of the seating area. They both sat, turned to face each other, with their elbows on the top cushion and their foreheads propped on their hands. Blair was mesmerized by the play of firelight on Ian's thick, wavy, lustrous black hair. His dark eyes sparkled and his grin was so seductive. Finally, after a moment of silence between them, Blair whispered, "Wow." 

"There you go again. What is it this time?" 

"You. You're incredible." 

"Thank you. That's helps me feel less inadequate." 

Blair huffed out a short laugh, but then he noticed that Ian wasn't smiling like he expected. "Wait a minute. You're being serious?" Ian only nodded slightly. "No, I'm sorry, I don't believe you. Jack and I used to go to the gay clubs here, and I know there are some damn good looking men in Cascade who'd be like so all over you." 

"Blair, don't kid yourself. You are a damn good looking man. But most of the men who are interested in me are turned on by the doctor part. As for me, the things that I look for in a man usually exclude them from wanting me." 

"How?" 

"What I admire so much about you is the strength of your convictions. You have a strong moral code, and you fight for it, tooth and nail. I love that in a man. It reminds me of my youth. But most men who are like that can't see past the BMW. The last guy I asked out called me a tool of the oppression because I was wearing a bloody Rolex, whatever that meant. When you fought me over Jim's treatment options, I knew I liked you. It made me hope you'd like me, too. It's *another* one of the reasons I asked you to have dinner here instead of at a restaurant." 

"About last time, I said I was sorry." 

"I'm sure." 

"It wasn't to get me in bed?" 

"That comes later," Ian winked. Ian brushed his hair from his eyes, and when he did, Blair noticed the tips of sharp black spikes coloring the skin of his arm. Blair leaned forward to push Ian's sleeve further up on his arm. 

"Is this a tattoo?" 

"Yes." 

"When did you get a tattoo? How big is it? Can I see it?" 

"London. Full body. Yes, you can see it." 

Blair's eyes grew wide. Casually, Ian sat up, and his smooth hands moved gracefully against the buttons of his shirt, slowly, first one, spreading the shirt aside, then a second, spreading the shirt still further. Each time, Blair caught a better glimpse of Ian's rich saffron-colored skin, and the erotic shadows of his chest and abdomen muscles. And all the while, Ian's gentle eyes stared into Blair's as he bravely exposed himself. His shoulder muscles pulsed as he shucked the shirt behind him, then arched his back and chest. 

"Oh, man, that had to hurt." Blair's eyes followed the black tribal patterns as they began below Ian's elbows, up both arms in a twisting pattern, crossing his chest like a Celtic knot, and framing the sides of his abdomen and wash-board stomach. He noticed the black lines crept past the waist of his jeans. "Uhm, how far down does it go?" 

"Down the sides of my hips, around my thighs, all the way to my ankles." 

"Get out!" 

Ian couldn't help but laugh. "I can't believe you don't have a tattoo." 

"I have a nipple ring," Blair said with a puff of pride. 

Ian raised his eyebrows. "This I'll have to see." 

"Maybe one day." 

"You are such a tease." 

"Now, that, I've heard before." They both laughed softly. In the easy silence, they both realized Ian's Nina Simone CD was still repeating, and a soft, bluesy tune came on, her rich coffee-flavored voice slipping around the room like smoke. 

[you 

made me leave my happy home 

you took my love and now you're gone 

since I fell in love with you] 

Blair wasn't sure when it happened. He was continuing to stare into Ian's intoxicating eyes when he felt the sudden warmth and strength of Ian's fingers toying with his own. 

[love 

brings such misery and pain 

I guess I'll never be the same 

since I fell for you 

it's too bad 

it's so sad 

I'm still in love with you] 

They eased closer on the sofa, barely touching, as their faces turned slowly to fit each other, and lips brushed across lips. With closed eyes, they moved even closer. 

[you left me 

and you snubbed me 

what can I do? 

I'm still in love with you 

I get the blues most every night 

since I fell for you 

since I fell for you] 

* * *

=

Ian lay on top of Blair, and a rich white blanket covered them both. For the first time in months, Blair experienced a profound peace, with this intelligent, gentle man spread across his body. Both of their hands wandered aimlessly across each other, feeling hair, skin, muscle and warmth. Blair ran his fingers through Ian's thick black hair. "What kind of blanket is this?" 

"Alpaca wool." Ian whispered, then kissed his forehead. 

"I'd hate to see you explain these stains to the cleaners." 

"Semen comes out easily." 

"Words of experience, huh?" 

Ian only smiled, then kissed Blair on the neck. "I'm torn, Blair." 

"Huh?" 

"I desperately want you to stay the night with me. I want to feel you safe and asleep in my arms." His face was suddenly so sad that Blair traced his cheekbones with his fingers to make him smile again. "But," Ian continued, "I want you to go home and check on Jim." 

Blair squeezed him tightly. /God, what did I do to deserve these men?/ Then his subconscious answered, /By going through hell, that's how./ Blair felt Ian pull away, and he realized their chests were still coated in come. 

"We should get you cleaned up," Ian said. 

"Uhm, Ian?" 

"Yes?" 

"This is always the hardest thing to ask." 

"What?" 

"Well, living with a man with heightened senses and all . . ." 

"Yes?" 

"Can I take a shower before I go?" 

Ian laughed. "Wait here," he said, standing up. He covered Blair with the fur. "I'll be back to get you." Blair watched him leave, marveling in the doctor's lithe, gracefully body. His blackwork tattoos only accentuated his musculature. Leaning back, Blair listened as Ian drew water into a bath. He heard him in the kitchen, then several minutes later, Ian stepped in front of the CD player, turning off Nina Simone finally, and putting in Portishead. 

"Come on," he said, his hand stretched out for Blair. Blair slid his palm against Ian's, and together they walked through his master bedroom and into his bath. 

"Whoa!" Blair exclaimed. "A fireplace! In the bathroom?" At the edge of the bath, a small gas fireplace flamed. Blair looked around. Several glass waves framed the walls, and behind them burned gas candles. "Wait," Blair started, "those things look familiar --" 

"They're made by Dale Chihuly. Do you know him." 

"I've seen something like that before. . ." 

"Have you been to the Seattle Aquarium?" 

"Wait . . . the glass flowers? He did those?" 

"Yes. I met him at the Aquarium when he presented them." 

The tub was oval shaped and could easily fit two people. Ian had already drawn the bath, and Blair could smell peaches in the thick white lather. He held Blair's hand as Blair stepped into the warm water, then he slid in behind him, wrapping his arms around his hairy chest and nuzzling around in his hair. 

Ian's strong hands searched Blair's body. His left arm remained wrapped around Blair's chest, squeezing Blair's small pectorals and toying with his nipples. Blair arched his back and sighed. Ian's lengthy legs angled out of the water to snake against Blair's, and the doctor's right hand first cupped Blair's knee, sliding down his inner thigh into the juncture of his leg and hip, holding him tight. Beneath him, Blair could feel Ian's long, thin cock growing harder, pressing between his cheeks. His finger gently stroked Blair's balls, enjoying the curly pubic hairs before brushing the line between his scrotum and anus. 

Blair gasped when he felt Ian's finger brush across his tight entrance. In no hurry, Ian massaged Blair, back and forth in the oily water for several minutes before his fingertip finally ventured inside. Blair groaned, pressing his rear down on Ian's cock. With his left hand, Ian pressed down on Blair's flat stomach, toying with his navel before following his trail of hair into his groin. 

By the time Ian's middle finger was exploring deep inside Blair, his hand sheathed Blair's hard cock, rocking his fist against his erection in time to his probing finger. Blair moaned in ecstasy, his blue eyes like slits and his mouth slightly open. Ian continued to knead him with his fist, his finger deep inside and his cock pumping between his cheeks, faster and faster, finally using Blair's hole as a handle to build a fiercer tempo until both men exploded with a shout. 

Ian's finger remained inside Blair as together they sank into the hush of their orgasms. Eventually, Ian reached with his left hand for the bowl of dried apricots he had brought in from the kitchen. "Here," he whispered into Blair's ear. "In case you're hungry." He held the dried fruit for Blair to bite into its stringy flesh. 

* * *

Driving back home, Blair seemed in a daze. He felt on top of the world again. Nothing could stop him. He parked his car, stepped out, looked across the street, and froze. He suddenly realized that it had been months, ten months, since he even noticed that building existed. And below it, the concrete sidewalk. Blair's line of vision followed the brick wall, rising up four stories to the roof. The roof where Mashall Aigle had waited for a second try to kill them. The roof where Blair and Jim had captured him. He looked down again. And there, the sidewalk, where Mashall Aigle had met his death, because Blair had . . . /What I admire so much about you is the strength of your convictions. You have a strong moral code, and you fight for it, tooth and nail. I love that in a man./ 

Blair shook Ian's voice from his head and walked inside. 

* * *

Although Jim was a little unsure about dealing with Ian, he allowed the doctor to continue treating him. One of Ian's orders was for Jim to relax his senses, and he had suggested maybe a warm bath with a scented oil for his sense of smell. Light candles for his eyes. Put in a very relaxing CD for his ears, something melodic. "And Jim, I don't mean Santana," Ian had said. 

So, that night, on the Friday night he really wanted to talk to Blair about his feelings, Jim drew a hot bath and found a bottle of eucalyptus bath oil which Blair owned. Then he borrowed Blair's candles. The hardest part was finding music. For at least a minute, Jim stood in front of the CD player with Santana in one hand and Enya in the other. /Fine. I'll try the damn Enya CD, but if it doesn't work, I'm changing it./ 

Jim soaked for almost thirty minutes, his mind and body drifting, trying not to think of Ian and Blair together, when he heard his guide walk in. "Hey Jim?" 

"I'm in here." 

The door to the bathroom was open, and Blair walked in. He jerked back when he realized Jim was lying in the bathtub. "Hey, dude, sorry." 

"It's all right, Blair. I can make myself decent," Jim said as he draped a washtowel across his hips. 

"What are you doing?" Blair asked while peeking his head in the door. "Enya?" 

"Just following doctor's orders. I still think Santana would have done a better job." He watched Blair cautiously sneak into the bathroom. "You smell like peaches," Jim added. "I guess your date went well?" 

"As good as can be expected. How are you feeling?" 

"Everything seems to be in order. Haven't had anything fail today." 

Blair sat down on the floor, looking eye to eye with Jim and letting the porcelain rim hide most of Jim's body from his sight. Finally, Jim asked, "You feel like talking tonight?" 

"I guess." 

Jim lifted his hand from the water and reached for Blair's. Without saying a word, he dipped Blair's fingers into the warm, oily water, then pulled them back out. Gently, he ran their slick fingers together. The act was so simple, and so sensual, that Blair heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes. 

"Blair, I thought this would be easier to say once you met someone else . . . another man." 

Blair opened his eyes. Jim didn't speak for a few moments, but Blair didn't push him. Jim continued to twine their fingers together, staring at their glistening shapes. 

He took a deep breath and said, "When I was 18 I fell in love with another man." 

"A . . . another what?" 

"You heard me. We were in the Army together. I loved him with all of my heart. But then, two other guys in our unit were discovered one night in the showers. They were investigated and court-martialed. Dishonorable discharge. Conduct unbecoming. Their lives were ruined. But not before they were both beaten in the barracks one night." Jim made eye contact for the first time. "They almost died." Then he looked back at their hands. "I was so afraid that we would be next, that . . . that I told the man I loved I never wanted to see him again." 

Jim closed his eyes, feeling the old wounds again. He took a deep breath and continued. "I destroyed his life as surely as if I had killed him." 

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?" 

Jim didn't answer at first. "I don't know. I guess I wasn't ready to talk about it, and then you were so busy with Jack that I didn't think it mattered one way or the other." Then Jim turned to him. "I didn't know how to bring it up after Jack . . ." 

"You know I wouldn't have minded." 

"You would have minded the timing." 

The room fell to silence again, with only the background sounds of Enya that neither of them really heard. For Jim, there was also the beating of their hearts. He took another breath, and made the next step. "Last year, I realized I was in love with you." 

His piercing blue eyes moved up from Blair's hands to search his face. Blair felt the sadness, and he gently squeezed Jim's fingers. 

"It hurt like hell to see you with Jack, but Blair, believe me when I say this. It hurt even more when I saw him die. Blair, I would have died in his place a hundred times--" 

"Enough," Blair pulled his hand away from Jim. 

"I'm sorry." He waited for Blair to leave, and when he didn't, Jim continued. "And I'm still in love with you." 

Blair waited to see if Jim had more to say. His heart was racing. He had wanted Jim for so long, yet as he considered this, he could only see Ian's sweet face and feel his gentle hands, so adoring and seductive. For the first time in his life, he felt torn between two people he desperately wanted. When Jim remained silent, Blair spoke. "So what do you want to do about this?" 

Jim thought a few seconds longer, then answered. "I destroyed one man's life once before. I was too afraid that he would be the next one beaten to death in the barracks. What I didn't realize was that leaving him then hurt him just as bad. And I look at the police, and I can't help but think that the same thing would happen to you there. At least with you, we haven't started anything, but with Tom--" 

"Tom? The monk?" 

"Yes. And Blair, I don't mean to say this to hurt you, but I was more in love with Tom than I am with you now. And look what I did to him. And the Cascade PD is no different from the Army." 

"They don't hate me." 

"Only Simon and I know about Jack." 

"Jim, I --" Blair stood up in frustration. 

"I know, Blair. I'm sorry." 

"So you're just going to say you're in love with me. And no matter what I feel for you, the answer is still 'Tough shit'?" 

"You wanted to know what was wrong with me," Jim said, a little angry. "So I'm telling you. I'm in love with you, Blair, but I'm not ready to face this. I'm not ready to risk hurting you." 

"Like I'm not hurting now?" 

"You have Ian, now, don't you?" 

Blair began pacing and dragging his frenzied hands through his hair. 

"Blair, I don't want you to be angry with me." 

"Well it's a little late for that. It's a little late for just about everything. Why the hell didn't you tell me this sooner?" 

"I don't know," Jim answered, exasperated. 

"I wouldn't have gone out with Ian. I wouldn't have let him seduce me. Hell, I wouldn't have gone out with Jack for that matter. And Jack wouldn't be dead right now. And I wouldn't have killed--" 

Jim sat up slightly in the tub. /Are you ready to face this, Blair?/ 

Blair shook his head frantically and raced from the bathroom, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Jim covered his eyes with his hand. /Way to go, Jim. You fucked that one up./ 

* * *

The next day, in the bullpen, Jim and Blair gave each other a wide berth. At breakfast, Blair had moved from pissed, to angry, then formal. Now that Blair was being polite, Jim felt like a weight had been lifted. They both focused on paperwork, and Blair was steadily running down a list of recent court activities in nearby counties to see if any suspects wanted in their investigations had been apprehended outside of their jurisdiction. Normally, Blair hated this task, but today he welcomed it. 

For much of that night, Blair had been shaken up by Jim's confession. He had spent the night in fitful sleep, twisting and turning in imaginary arguments. And when Jim refused to be baited into arguing with him, Blair just gave it up. Already, Ian had called, just to say how much he enjoyed last night, and hoped Blair would be willing to see him again. Blair said he'd call him later, that he and Jim were busy. 

"Blair," Jim had said, "it's just paperwork." But Blair had glared at Jim so fiercely that the detective just raised his hands up in defense. 

Hearing Ian's velvet voice and rich accent, Blair remembered how nice their dinner had been. He sighed, shaking his head. /Why am I stressing out over Jim? I'm a modern man who can roll with the punches. This is probably for the best because he is my partner, and I am his guide./ After lunch, he was in a slightly better mood. 

Now, staring down this computer print-out of names, Blair continued to see, again and again like a litany, the words "conviction conviction conviction" and hearing in his mind Ian's praise of his convictions, his convictions. The color of the computer paper, an off-white, almost beige from sitting in storage for so long, reminded him of something Blair couldn't quite picture, until an hour later he realized it was the same sandy color as the sidewalk. 

Jim looked up at the wall clock and saw it was ten till six. "Hey, Blair, let's cut out of here early." 

"Yeah. Sure." 

Jim eyed his partner. Now Blair was sullen, almost depressed. 

* * *

Jim woke in complete darkness to the crack of thunder. He opened his eyes. Thunder was somewhat uncommon in the northwest. He listened to the sound of the rain to gauge the strength of the storm. Water pounded on the roof above. Then he snuggled down into the flannel sheets. /Good sleeping weather./ And like a security blanket, Jim thought with a smile, he searched the loft for Blair's heartbeat /my teddy bear/. He searched. And he searched. 

Jim sat up, dialing his sense of hearing as far as he could. Still, he couldn't sense Blair. /Blair, where are you? I didn't hear you leave./ Jim climbed out of bed and grabbed his jeans. Even in the dim light, he could see Blair's jacket hanging on the coat rack by the door. He stepped downstairs, and saw Blair's wallet and keys. Jim rushed into Blair's room. Empty. 

Then Jim ran to the front window to check on Blair's car. He saw it, still parked out front. /Where are you?/ He was beginning to panic when he noticed Blair's silhouette in the street below. He was standing perfectly still on the sidewalk across the street, partially obscured by the lamp post, without a coat and staring down. 

"Oh, Blair." Jim knew what he was looking at. For ten months he had been afraid of this moment. Blair was staring down at the very spot where Marshall Aigle had died, when Blair had let go of the killer's hand to see him fall. 

Not even thinking of himself, Jim ran out of the loft wearing only his jeans. No shirt, no shoes. He had enough forethought, or maybe force of habit, to grab his keys as he ran through the door, into the stairwell, then out into the street and the cold, pouring rain. 

"Blair?" he shouted once but didn't wait for a reply as his long body splashed through the puddles in the road and crossed the street. He snatched Blair up, scooping him into his arms and turning quickly to dart back inside. Blair's body was so soaked and freezing, shivering violently against Jim's chest. 

Jim left a trail of water through the loft as he carried Blair into the bathroom. Jim stood him up, balancing him with one arm around his waist while he turned on the hot water to let it warm. Once it was the right temperature, he shucked off his jeans and pulled both of them beneath the hot spray. 

Blair let out a sudden gasp. Jim relaxed, but only a little, as he quickly began rubbing Blair's body vigorously with his hands. Blair didn't fight it, and as the warm water rinsed away the cold, he sank against Jim's chest. Relieved, Jim pulled him tight, brushing his hand across the top of his wet hair, from the top of his head to just past the shoulders. Even though Blair was silent, Jim could feel him sobbing. 

Then Blair's breath grew faster. He started to struggle against Jim, and as Jim released his hold on his guide, Blair started to push his fist against Jim's chest, light taps until he was pounding harder and harder and shaking more fiercely against Jim's grasp. After a while, Jim pointed him toward the wall, and Blair began to beat against the tile, kicking his boots into the porcelain before finally shouting, "Why?! Why why why why why?!" 

"Oh, Blair--" 

"Why, Jim, why? Why me? Why me? Wh . . . what did I do? Why did that bastard have to kill Jack? Why? We didn't do anything! We didn't! We were just happy! What . . . what was wrong with that? Why?" 

"Blair, don't--" 

"And why did he have to come back? Why?" 

"Come on, Blair, don't do this to yourself." 

"Why?" Blair was crying hard now. "And why . . . why . . ." then he choked it out, "why did I . . . let go?" 

Jim forced Blair back into his arms, enveloping him as his sobbing racked his body. "Why did I let go? Why? Why? If I had just held on, I wouldn't have . . . he would have been . . . in prison or something . . . and I wouldn't have . . ." 

"Shhh. Don't destroy yourself over this." 

"He took Jack away--" 

"Stop it, Blair, please--" 

"And he's gonna take Ian--" 

"He's dead, Blair, he's not going to--" 

"You don't understand," Blair sobbed. "Ian thinks I'm good--" 

"You are good, Blair--" 

"He's not going to want me when he finds out I killed a man--" 

"Stop it, Blair--" 

"I killed a man," Blair pulled his head away to wail, "I killed a man! I killed a man because I wanted to." 

After three years, Jim had never seen Blair this distraught. Even after Jack had died, all through the mourning period, he had never seen Blair like this, torn by guilt, convinced he had lost both Jack and Ian. He held him tight, rocking him in the sway of the hot water as his guide shook and grieved. He felt his own heart breaking because he couldn't stop this, except to hold him as he fell apart in his hands. 

Eventually, the hot water began to cool. 

As Jim felt Blair's sobs subside, he finally said, "Blair, Ian's not going to leave you for this." 

"Yes, he is. He loves me for my . . . convictions." 

"Blair, you're not different. You haven't lost these things. This just happened." 

"No, Jim, everything I've ever believed in, everything I've ever fought for, I threw them away . . . so . . . easily. It all made so much sense. Killing him. Ian will never see that." 

"Blair," Jim hugged him tight, "there is still one more man who loves you with all of his heart." 

Jim wasn't expecting Blair's response. Blair pulled back and punched his chest with all of his might, shouting to hurt his ears, "BUT HE'S TOO FUCKING SCARED TO LOVE ME!!" 

Jim felt the wind knocked out of him. Blair stared at him, his wet hair like mad, twisted vines around his raging eyes. With a trembling hand, Jim pulled back the shower curtain, clumsily stepping onto the cold tile floor. With jerking, awkward motions, Jim slowly picked up a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and retreated from the room. 

Blair remained in the shower as the water turned cold. He hadn't meant to hurt Jim that badly, just a little. He didn't expect it to come out so painfully. Closing his eyes, and feeling the tears warm his face as it mixed with the cold water, Blair turned to face the spray. Slowly, mechanically, Blair slid each plastic button in his shirt through the tight slots, freeing it, as he undressed in the now freezing water. 

* * *

Blair didn't seem to notice the other graves. He never did, as he walked in a straight line toward where Jack was buried. There was only a bronze plaque that sat level to the ground, but Blair had nearly covered it with rocks. /Rocks./ One of the few Jewish rituals that had always touched Blair -- the placing of rocks on a grave, so that when a soul rose each night to wander, he would see that someone had come by, thinking of him. Some of the rocks near Jack's grave were small, non-descript, but one special one, that Jim had bought for Blair, had the word "love" carved on it. Blair sat on the cold wet ground and placed a smooth pebble by Jack's name. 

"Sorry I've been gone so long," Blair managed. "Things have been really busy. Jim and I've been having a rough time, but I had to come by. I had to come and admit that you were right." Blair took a breath. "Jim does love me. He told me, a while ago. And, yes, Jack, you're right, I do love Jim, too." He plucked at the brown grass as his eyes grew wet. "Still, I wish you were here. I'd rather have you." He looked up into the gray sky. /Why can't real life be like *Ghost*? Then Jack would just magically appear and hold me./ 

He looked back at the marker. "Anyway . . . Jack, I don't know what to do. I mean, I know what I want to do. I could wait for you for the rest of my life. . . . . I know, I know, don't argue with me. I know I shouldn't do this, but Jack it's what I want to do. It's what feels right. I . . . I love you, man, and it's killing me to put you aside. I feel so guilty, sometimes. But then, at night, it hurts so bad to know what it feels like to be held and then know that you're not here to do that for me." Tears were flowing fast now. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that to make you feel bad. I know you can't help it. I know you didn't ask for that fucking bastard to shoot us and . . ." Blair sucked in his breath, remembering the other reason he came here. 

"I never really thought I'd say this, Jack, but now I'm feeling bad that I let go of that little shit. You probably wouldn't have wanted me to do it, anyway, but I somehow felt that you *should* have wanted me to do it. Or at least I *hoped* you would have wanted me to, that you loved me so much that killing him would have been the only thing to make you feel good, too. . . . But you wouldn't have really wanted me to do that, I know. All the times I saw those people come into the station and demand justice, I just thought they were hatemongers and stuff. And now . . . now I have so much more sympathy for them. I hope you are feeling how much this separation is killing me. It would make killing him seem more . . . justified." 

Blair remained motionless for a while, his mind paused and silent. Then he moved, shifting his weight before starting again. "And I met someone." He suddenly sobbed and covered his mouth, surprised by the outburst. "Jack, Jack, I'm so sorry -- it just happened and I couldn't stop it and I love you so much please don't be angry with me please don't be angry with me--" Blair covered his face with his hands. A few minutes later, he had composed himself. 

"It just sort of happened. I was so worried about Jim. He had gotten hurt at the waterfront, not to mention all the fighting that went on between us. Yeah, we kinda had a tough time for a while. Okay, for a long while. But he was hurt and I was so . . . tired . . . and this guy just took care of me. I can't explain it. He just took care of me. It was like you had come back to me. I kept telling myself that that was what you would have wanted, but I feel so selfish putting those words in your mouth. I want . . . I need you to come back and tell me." 

Blair waited for a sign. He listened for a gust of wind in the firs, for the call of a bird or even Jack's raspy voice calling, "Love." Nothing. Complete, utter silence and emptiness. Blair took a deep breath. "So this is death, huh? You're gone. You're just gone and you're never coming back and I'm never going to see you again." He gritted his teeth. "Knowing that kinda makes me glad I let go of that bastard so he'll know what it's like." He brushed his hand through his hair. 

"I guess that pretty much says it, Jack. I murdered a man, and now this guy Ian won't be interested anymore. He says he admires 'the strength of my convictions.' Hah! If only he knew that I almost got a 'conviction' if Jim hadn't felt sorry for me. Okay, okay, if Jim wasn't in love with me." 

"God, Jack, what am I supposed to do?" He stared at the bronze letters of his name. "He says he loves me but that he's too scared to do anything about it. Says he's seen men nearly killed because they were in love, and that he doesn't want to risk me getting hurt. Yeah, yeah, I told him. I told him that telling me he loves me but not enough to take that chance hurts me just as bad. He just doesn't see that. At least I know you told me you liked Jim a great deal, and yes, Jack, I remember you telling me that if something were to happen you wanted me to get with Jim. And I remember, by the way, how mad I was at you for saying that." Blair forced back a short laugh. "Funny how that worked out." He closed his eyes to try and dry them. "Then, I was just mad at you on principle for even thinking of something happening to us. Now . . . well . . . now I really am pissed." 

Blair was silent for a while, playing with the grass, running his fingers through it the way he had run his fingers through the hair on Jack's chest. With a sigh, he added, "Still, I think you would like Ian. He's so much like you, in a way. He's had this exotic life that I love to hear about." Then Blair pressed a weak smile. "He even sings like you do. He just starts singing to me and it always makes me laugh. He's Japanese, but he grew up in England. Sometimes he says something and I can hear you saying it, too. . . . . okay, so you aren't a 'pom' as you used to say, you don't have to keep reminding me . . . I know the difference. . . . he's a neurologist, and he has a tattoo. A really big one. And he has the most gentle smile. Not like yours. You had one of those wide grins that just went everywhere. Ian has this reserved, sneaky smile. Like he wants to smile more but that he's holding back. He makes me . . . feel good when he jokes with me. Not some uproar, but like it's an inside joke that only he and I are sharing, and it makes it feel so much more personal." 

"Yeah, we've done it once. At his house. Not that it matters, anymore. He wants some knight in shining armor who fights the good fight. He doesn't need some hypocrite who just talks about the sanctity of human life and then doesn't do anything about it. . . . Still, I guess what I like so much about him is that he reminds me of you, the way he constantly courts me. I miss that. Oh, Jack, I miss you. I miss the way you would just stop on the street and show me something. You remember those two old people we saw, the old couple who were still holding hands in the park and you said you wanted us to do that when we were old? God, I miss that." 

"And, no, I don't think Jim would be like that. I'm sorry, Jack, I just don't see how you always thought Jim would be such a romantic. I mean, he just doesn't strike me as that kind of person -- so anal and closed up. I mean, he said he was in love with me before you and I even met and he's just now telling me he loves me? How long would we be together before he remembers an anniversary?" 

"No." Blair waved his hand. "I'm not going to get upset over this. Jim and I haven't even kissed. Why am I suddenly so upset that Jim hasn't tried to seduce me? . . . . okay, okay, maybe I *am* upset that he hasn't tried to seduce me. I mean, you didn't have any trouble. And Ian sure didn't. What's wrong with me? Maybe I'm not his type, and even though he loves me, he doesn't REALLY love me. Not like Tom. Yeah, Tom was the guy he met in the Army. I expect he's all muscle-bound and anal and disciplined like Jim. Maybe that's what Jim really wants." 

Blair sighed. "So what should I do, Aussie? Should I wait for Jim? Should I try for Ian?" He heard no answer, but he felt only one need in his heart. /I'd rather wait for you, Jack./ Blair rolled his eyes. "Jack, how many times have we got to go through this? I know. I know. I need to move on. But have you got any idea what effect you had on me? Huh? You changed my life, man, and I can't just get over you. I would have grown old with you, man. You filled me. And I see Jim and I see Ian and they just don't measure up to you . . . Stop it, Jack. I know I haven't given Jim a chance. Jeez, man, I don't know what you see in Jim." Blair raised up his hands. "All right, already, I know. He watches over me, and I know you appreciate that. And he's always been the big brother, and he's always defended me to Simon, and he's been my best friend. He was there for me, the entire time you were gone. And I admit, he's so much fun to tease. He is so easy to rile up." Blair smiled. 

"Yeah, you're right. If Jim ever pulled a romantic stunt on me. If he ever once pulled a 'Jack,' I wouldn't be feeling all this right now. I guess that's the answer" Blair became silent for a long while, allowing his thoughts to finally rest. He waited for some sound, but heard only silence. Then he said, "So, babe, that's my news. What's happening on your end? Have you met Princess Di yet? What about Mother Theresa? Did you ever get a chance to buy Claude Levi-Strauss a drink?" 

* * *

Blair continued to avoid Ian, not wanting to face the final judgment. When Jim would push him, Blair would always snap. Sometimes he would make a remark about Jim minding his own business, which only made Jim worry more. Other times, Blair would hint that Jim should be more concerned with his own feelings, which burned. 

Then one Saturday, the flowers started showing up. Jim was at home, cleaning up, when the first bouquet arrived after lunch. Blair was away, teaching his four-hour long Saturday class. By five o'clock, four more arrangements were delivered. Jim stared at the cards. He couldn't open them. That would be wrong. /But Blair's not talking./ 

Against his better judgement, Jim grabbed the first card. He held the envelope flat and brushed his sensitive fingers across the paper, reading the impression. "I'm sorry." Then the second card. "For whatever I did, I'm sorry." "Please, tell me what's wrong." Jim had read enough. He didn't bother reading the others. 

Blair stepped into the loft with a haggard look on his face. He saw the flowers lining the kitchen counter and closed his eyes. 

"You've been very popular," Jim said as he rose from the couch. 

Blair just shook his head. "I have just as many in my office." 

"Blair, why won't you talk to him?" 

"Jim, I don't feel like talking about this with you." 

"I know you don't. I regret I ever told you I was in love with you. If I had kept it to myself, you would have felt like you could talk to me. We would have been best friends, still." 

"Oh, Jim, that's not it." Blair gave him a quick hug. "It has to do with me killing a man, in cold blood." 

"Blair, I can --" 

"Hush, Jim. I'm processing. Don't try to influence me until I'm ready, okay?" 

* * *

Monday morning, and Jim received a call. "Ellison." 

"Good morning, Mr. Ellison, it's Doctor Yoshito. I was calling to see how you were doing. I see you're back to work full time?" 

"Yeah, Doc. I'm fine." 

"Vision is back to normal?" 

"Yes." 

"Hearing? Smell?" 

"Yes, everything is working." 

"Good." There was a pause before Ian added, "Jim, I don't want this to sound like I'm prying, and I know I should be working this out with Blair, but I just wanted to know -- Is he all right? I mean, is he in good health?" 

Jim sighed. "Doc, he's okay." 

"I just haven't heard from him. I was worried. As long as he's all right . . . " 

"Don't take this hard. Blair's been through a rough year, and he's keeping us all at a good distance. Don't take it personally." 

"Thanks. I just wanted to make sure he was all right, at least." 

"Hey, Doc, tonight's Blair's night to cook dinner. Why don't you come by for a few minutes, just to see him for yourself. Make it look like a house call or something." 

* * *

Blair was in the kitchen making their dinner when they both heard the knock at the door. Jim bolted from the sofa. "I'll get it." 

When he opened the door, Jim was taken aback. Ian stood there. That he expected. He did not expect for Ian to look as bad as he did. His hair was ruffled, and the circles under his eyes were so dark that he must not have slept for days. "Whoa, Doc, you look awful." 

"Jim, who is it?" Blair stepped around the kitchen counter while wiping his hands with a towel. When he saw Ian, he froze, then he narrowed his eyes at Jim. 

"Come on in, Doc," Jim said, almost pulling him inside. "I just remembered we're out of something." He grabbed his coat and keys. "I'll run to the store and be back in a minute." Jim closed the door behind him. 

They both stared at each other for a few minutes. Blair studied how exhausted and worn Ian appeared. /Man, I like so do not need this, too./ Emotionally, Blair was more angry than anything else, ticked off at Jim. /He had no right to set me up like this./ 

"Blair? Did I do something wrong?" 

"Ian . . ." 

"I realize now that you don't want to see me. Is it Jim?" 

"No. It's not Jim." 

"Did I say something wrong? Was it the apartment? The tattoo?" 

"Ian, it's none of those things. You are a perfect man. Anyone in Cascade would want you." 

"Why don't you want me?" 

"Ian, it's not that I don't want you. You are a very desirable person. But it's me, Ian, I'm the one who doesn't feel comfortable in this." 

"Why? What did I do wrong?" 

"Ian," Blair snapped, "you didn't do anything wrong, all right? I'm the one who did something wrong. Got it?" 

"Blair, I don't like you judging me like this. You hardly know me. You don't know my past or what I've done. Why would you think I would judge you harshly?" 

Blair felt all of his frustrations come to a head. He had wanted Ian to just leave him alone so that he wouldn't have to face his eventual rejection. "Fine, let's get this over with so you'll leave me alone." He grabbed Ian's hand and led him out the door. Ian followed behind quietly as Blair led him to the sidewalk across the street. "There, do you see that crack right there?" 

"No." 

"There! It's right there!" 

"I don't see anything." 

"It's right there, damnit!" Blair shook his finger in a frenzy. 

Ian pulled Blair's hand back. "Blair, it's too dark." 

"Ten months ago the man who shot me and killed my lover returned to finish the job, only he was trying to kill Jim. We apprehended him on that roof up there." Blair pointed upward. "There was a struggle, and the killer slipped. I was holding on to him, until I realized this was the man who had shot and killed my lover. I let go of him . . . on purpose." Blair watched for the change in Ian's expression. When he didn't see one, he added, "Don't you see? I killed a man, in cold blood up there. I let go of him because I wanted to see him die. I wanted to hurt him. So you love me for my convictions? How about that one? And the only reason I'm not convicted is because Jim covered it up for me. Yes, that's what made it even worse. I dragged Jim into this . . . crime. I dirtied him just as much as I dirtied myself." 

Ian stared at Blair for a few minutes, listening to Blair's rapid breath grow calm. Then he spoke. "On our last date, we agreed to share one thing at a time about our pasts." When Blair didn't respond, Ian continued. "There's a reason I'm in Cascade, Washington, instead of L.A. or New York or London. My . . . my father used his government connections to get me a high-ranking job with the U.S. government. I took it, thinking it was a good move. I had no idea what I was getting into." 

Ian took a deep breath, and looked down at his feet. "Blair, I was asked to conduct medical experiments on military patients, without their consent." He looked up at Blair. "And I did it. It was harmless at first. I was helping to find treatments for soldiers exposed to chemical weapons. Then the treatments . . . changed. The officers wouldn't tell me what the chemicals were supposed to do. I was little more than a nurse, then, delivering injections. Then," Ian's voice tightened, and he coughed slightly to cover it. "Then one day, everyone in my ward started dying. . . . I can't sleep at night, sometimes, because I can hear them screaming, and I'm back in that hospital, standing there, not even knowing what I put inside those innocent men. When you wouldn't call me back, all I could think was that somehow you knew about this, maybe from Jim or from the FBI. I knew they had at least told you part of my past was classified. . . . And you didn't want to have anything to do with me. I've been having these dreams every night now." 

"Ian, I had no idea--" 

"And one," Ian closed his eyes, "one of those men was secretly . . . a lover of mine." Ian rubbed his eyes. When he looked up, his eyes were wet and glistening under the halogen street lights. "Last year I found out that the others are now dying slowly of cancer." 

They both remained silent for a few minutes. "Blair, I'm sorry you feel guilty for this, for killing this man. I would . . . I would never have judged you for it. I stopped judging men a long time ago. But, if you . . . if you can see it in your heart to forgive me the mistakes that I've made, then . . . . never mind," he turned to leave. "That's too much to ask." 

"Ian, wait." 

Ian turned around and said, "Blair, I forgive you, if it helps. I wish I had done something like what you did. You had a reason. You were in mourning. Me, what reason did I have? Gross, baseless greed. Maybe pride. Maybe a need to impress my father. . . . And I wish I could revenge all of those soldiers who are dead or dying." 

Ian left, returning to his car, and Blair didn't stop him. As Ian drove away, Blair felt a presence behind him. Startled, he turned around, expecting any number of ghosts. 

Jim looked down at him. "I'm sorry, Chief. I was sitting on the tailgate of my truck all the time. I didn't expect you to bring him out here. And I didn't mean to eavesdrop." 

"It's okay, Jim. Did you know about all this?" 

"About the soldiers? No." 

Blair sighed heavily. 

Then Jim said, "You weren't expecting him to forgive you so easily, were you?" 

"No." 

"I wish I had some words of wisdom for you. Tom said something to me once that might help, when I went to him the first time, to ask for forgiveness. He gave his forgiveness so quickly, but it didn't make me feel any better. Then he said, 'It's so much easier to forgive someone, but it's almost impossible to forgive yourself.'" 

They remained silent a moment longer, before Blair said, "I better get back to the kitchen. I expect dinner is burned." 

Jim watched the young man leave, watched his limber form cross the street and climb the stairs. He was so beautiful, with his slim body and his long hair. But more than that, he was so beautiful inside, so innocent yet knowing. /God, I want to grow old with you,/ he thought. /I want to know you as you grow older. I want you to stay with me, so I can watch you change. Change comes so easily for you. And I've . . . I've done you so much wrong. You have come into my life and saved me. You've made me a different person. And you fell in love with me. And everything that's happened to you this year has been because of me./ Jim rolled his head back on his neck. /Jim, what is more important? Blair, or the police?/ His mind became silent for a while. /If the police can't accept you and love you as easily as this young man has, then what worth are they? Yes, it's all you know, but now's the time to make a choice. You can have Blair, and be happy. And the minute someone raises a hand against Blair, this isn't the Army, this is a job. You can quit. You can become a private investigator or something but you will always have Blair./ 

Jim looked up at the lights in his home. "I will always have you, Blair," he said out loud, "and I know you like this doctor right now, but Blair I tell you this -- I will win you back from this man. I will win you back." He puffed up his chest slightly. "This doctor won't know what hit him." 

* * *

End Loving You Less Than Life II.


End file.
